


we were born to repeat history

by laquearia



Series: Repeating History [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 2018 PyeongChang Olympics, 2022 Beijing Winter Olympics, Angst, Chapters get longer as you go along, Complicated Grief, Heartbreaking, In Medias Res, M/M, Mutual Pining, Older Characters, Realistic depiction of relationships, Rekindling of feelings, Slow Burn, The Slowest of all Slow Burns, broken relationships, happy ending eventually, jealous viktor, literature tie-ins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-03-09 04:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 107,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13473273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laquearia/pseuds/laquearia
Summary: “Do you still think of him?”They ask this question all the time. Every interview, every competition—it always comes up one way or another. The words change sometimes, articles and verbs trading places and finding new identities as they spill from the mouths of reporters, friends, and family, but the question is always, always the same beneath the crushed veneer of wordplay.And every time, Yuuri lies. He lies through his teeth.“No,” he says. A tight-lipped smile. “Not anymore.”(When tensions run high at the 2018 Olympics in PyeongChang, Viktor and Yuuri end up breaking off their engagement, much to the shock of the rest of the world. Four years later, Yuuri is preparing Minako's nephew for the 2022 Olympics in Beijing and Viktor is doing the same for Yuri Plisetsky, and no one is really all right with the situation at all.)(Currently under revision.)





	1. dissolve the floors of memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there. Welcome. I'm very sorry in advance for the pain you will experience when reading this. 
> 
> When I originally wrote this first chapter, I intended for it to be a depressing oneshot that nobody would ever see and remember, much less read. Alas, I managed to hook some people and thus decided to keep going, and now it's bigger than I ever thought possible. So thank you, those of you who are re-reading this while you wait for me to update the next chapter. I appreciate every single one of you. :) 
> 
> Just so you know: this story is incredibly sad--or so I'm told. I wouldn't actually know, seeing as I'm the one who wrote it. That being said, this story is all about Yuuri and Viktor finding their way back to each other, so don't think for one second that it's going to be a tragedy with tons of buildup and zero payoff. Every heartbreaking metaphor I've crafted has a purpose, and if you can fight through all of them, it'll be worth it in the end. I promise. Stay strong and possibly keep a box of tissues nearby. I don't think I need to hand out any trigger warnings or anything like that--it's just hella sad, plain and simple! 
> 
> Enjoy. :)

* * *

 

“Do you still think of him?”

They ask this question all the time. Every interview, every competition—it always comes up one way or another. The words change sometimes, articles and verbs trading places with each other and finding new identities as they spill from the mouths of reporters, family, and friends, but the question is always, _always_ the same beneath the crushed veneer of wordplay.

And every time, Yuuri lies. He lies through his teeth.

“No,” he says. A tight-lipped smile. “Not anymore.”

 

* * *

_December 14, 2021 – Hasetsu, Japan_

 

“Again.”

An exasperated huff and the scrape of sharpened blades. Out on the ice, Sutemi grunts as he launches himself into another jump, arms crossed tightly over his chest and eyes squeezed shut against the rest of the world. He lands cleanly, his right knee bending just enough to absorb the shock of his own weight as he swings his other foot around to counterbalance.

Sutemi turns and glides back to his coach. Roses have bloomed in his cheeks and sweat glistens on his forehead—clear signs of the hours of grueling practice he’s been subjected to today. The boy waits for judgment with eyes harder than flint, lips thin in anticipation, but Yuuri says nothing. He waits—

Ah, there it is. He sees a flicker of pride in the depths of Sutemi’s eyes.

“Again,” Yuuri intones.

For a moment, there is no response to his flat words. Then Sutemi blinks, recoiling slightly. “Uh. Coach?” he asks, frowning as if he misheard.

Yuuri keeps his expression neutral and vaguely unimpressed. He gestures out toward the ice. “You heard me. Do it again.”

“But coach, I—"

“ _Again_.”

Sutemi’s jaw clenches, dark eyebrows furrowing in frustration, but he doesn’t say another word; he’s learned how futile it is to argue. Instead, he pushes off in the opposite direction with stiff shoulders, building up speed around the far side of the rink before he tenses up and launches into another fantastic jump—this one even smoother than the last.

Sutemi skates back to his coach, breathing heavily. He bends over and braces his hands on his knees. “How—" he gasps “How was that?”

_It was wonderful. You’re a better skater than I ever was. You remind me of—_

“Better,” Yuuri relents, nodding slowly. “You’re having trouble bringing your free leg around smoothly, but your takeoff is solid enough. Do you think you can do it in competition?”

Sutemi’s jaw clenches and he straightens his shoulders, expression hardening in determination. Yuuri is suddenly reminded that Sutemi is no longer a gangly boy of sixteen—at twenty, he's the newest face of Japanese figure skating and he  _earned_  that title. “Yes, sir.”

Yuuri nods tersely, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you think you can you do it in the second half of your short program?”

Sutemi pales ever so slightly. “I—yes, I think so. Probably.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow at his tone. “Probably,” he repeats flatly. “ _’Probably’_  isn’t going to beat Plisetsky at the Olympics. Either you can make the jump in the second half or you can’t; there is no in-between.”

The words are colder than the ice on which they stand, but the truth rings clear. Sutemi had placed third at the GPF last year for his lackluster technical score while Yuri Plisetsky had taken home the gold for the fourth year in a row. Yuuri’s been drilling his student to perform quads every day since then. His progress has been incredible, despite the fact that Yuuri will never be as comfortable with teaching those jumps as Vi—

Well. He just isn’t comfortable with them.

Yuuri lets out a slow breath and regards Sutemi carefully. A flicker of uncertainty glimmers in Sutemi’s dark eyes, but it is quickly replaced with fiery determination at the mention of the Russian Punk. He meets Yuuri’s gaze unflinchingly.

“I can do it in the second half,” he says firmly. “I know I can.”

In that moment, he sees Minako-sensei is the boy’s eyes. He sees the steely determination in his rigid stance and the unflinching resolve in the crease between his eyebrows—it’s the same look Minako gives students who say they can’t dance.

It’s the same look she used to give Yuuri, the look that said  _you are stronger than this._

It’s the expression that got him on the ice in the first place.

Yuuri allows himself a small smile at the memory. “Good,” he says, clapping the boy on the shoulder. “Now get back out there and run through your free program one more time. Switch out that toe loop for the Salchow in the first half and we’ll call it a night. I’m sure your aunt will want you back before it gets dark.”

Sutemi glances over his shoulder as he glides out to the center of the rink and rolls his eyes, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “She wouldn’t mind if you drilled my quads for the next three days straight. You know how she is about this sort of thing.”

“And  _you_  know how she is about taking care of your body,” Yuuri emphasizes. He breathes out a soft laugh. “She used to get onto me for not resting enough between practices. I’d hate to see her turn her wrath on you.”

A shudder, and Sutemi takes up his starting position, arms outstretched above his head. “Don’t jinx me. You know, last week she scolded me for—"

“Less talking, more skating,” Yuuri calls out, pressing the play button on the stereo. The CD whirs to life in the player and before long, soft musical notes spill out across the ice.

Yuuri can’t help but smile into his hand as he watches his student glide through the routine with his trademarked power and undeniable elegance. He moves with the grace and poise of a ballet dancer and he lands his jumps like gravity is more of an old friend rather than an acquaintance. Yuuri sees Minako in his fluid hand gestures and twists, he sees himself in Sutemi’s step sequences, and he sees—

He sees Viktor in every jump.

Viktor’s name leaves a bitter taste in Yuuri’s mouth like a wine gone bad—all sharp, metallic, and sour. His face remains neutral as he sifts through unsolicited watercolor memories of platinum hair, soft smiles, and blue-green eyes that used to crinkle around the corners back when things were simple.

Sutemi’s face is serene as he twists and stretches his body as the music builds to its haunting crescendo, the piano chords striking sourly, softly. His chestnut-colored hair sticks to his forehead and his breathing is coming hard and fast. Every muscle is relaxed and devoted to the routine, a clear contrast to the way his body pleads for rest.

As Sutemi goes into his final spin, pulling his heel above his head in an effortless Biellmann, Yuuri sighs and leans heavily against the sill that surrounds the rink. The routine is perfect. There’s no doubt in Yuuri’s mind that Sutemi will make the podium at the Olympics this year. A thousand miles away, Yuuri knows Viktor is training Yuri Plisetsky just as hard—if not harder—to make the podium as well. He would expect no less.

What had the tabloids called the boys’ rivalry last year?  _Clash of the Titans?_  

The music comes to a close with a flourish and Sutemi strikes his final pose, chest heaving. He holds it— _one, two, three_ —before his knees buckle and he collapses, crumpling to the ice in a heap of trembling limbs and sweat-dampened skin. He sits there for a moment to cool off, cheek pressed to the ice.

After a moment, Sutemi looks up at Yuuri with hopeful eyes. “How was that?” he wheezes.

It was good. Better than good. The routine is worthy of a gold medal or three, and Yuuri is practically vibrating with glee at the mere prospect—but the more practical side of Yuuri’s brain sticks its hand in the air and waves it around frantically, cruelly reminding Yuuri that, oh, yes,  _Viktor_  will be at the Olympics in four months as well, and things won't be easy for either of them.

The thought is sobering, and it’s the only reason Yuuri manages to refrain from gushing about Sutemi’s performance. “It was… good,” he says carefully, ironing out his expression, “but there’s always room for improvement. We’ll tighten up that step sequence in the second half tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, coach,” Sutemi breathes, letting his eyes slip shut as he sags against the ice, boneless and spent. “Whatever you say.”

It takes some time to peel his student off the ice (“No, you cannot sleep here. Come  _on_.”) and it takes even longer to get him out of his skates. Sutemi grimaces when Yuuri takes his skates off for him, being extra careful to avoid the mottled bruises that have flowered in uncomfortable places all over his feet. Still, Sutemi can’t help his sharp intake of air when he steps back into his normal shoes. Yuuri winces on his behalf but says nothing because he knows Sutemi won’t appreciate the pity.

“Hot springs and dinner?” he asks instead, and Sutemi nods.

The trip back to Yu-topia is slow at first. Sutemi hobbles unsteadily on his feet like a newborn, his ebony eyes lined harshly with the effort of hiding his pain from his coach. But as they cross the bridge, his gait gradually lengthens and becomes more even, steps more confident than before as he adjusts to the bruises on his feet.

Yuuri watches him carefully out of the corner of his eye and adjusts the bags slung over his shoulder. “Your aunt is going to kill me when she sees your feet.”

Sutemi glances at him sidelong. “If you let me sleep in tomorrow, I won’t tell her.”

Deep down, Yuuri knows he should be at least a  _little_  bit concerned that his student is blackmailing him, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to sleep past 8:00 AM for once. He pretends to deliberate over the decision for a few seconds because he feels like it’s his duty as a Responsible Adult.

“You drive a hard bargain,” he grumbles finally, but there’s no venom behind the words.

Sutemi smiles faintly in the shadow of a passing streetlight, the profile of his sharp features clearly visible against the glittering backdrop of Hasetsu. He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it’s always a welcome sight; his smiles are reminiscent of Minako’s thousand-watt grins, give or take a few bulbs.

They walk a short distance in silence before Sutemi finally speaks. He bites the inside of his cheek, eyebrows furrowed. “You know, I almost feel a little bit bad.”

“As you should,” Yuuri mutters. “Blackmailing your coach is—”

“Not for that.” Sutemi exhales quietly and stuffs his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, shrugging noncommittally. “I meant about the whole sleeping late thing. We’ve only got—what, four months before the Olympics? I feel like I should be using every moment I have to train. Or something. I dunno.”

“It’s more time than you think,” Yuuri tells him. “I wouldn’t worry.”

“What did you do when you went?” Sutemi asks suddenly, turning around. He walks backwards, peering up into his coach’s face as if he can find the answer written in the shadows behind Yuuri’s glasses. “In PyeongChang, I mean. What was your training schedule like?”

If Sutemi notices Yuuri’s sudden stiffness, he doesn’t comment on it. Nor does he comment on the way Yuuri begins to nervously fiddle with his glasses. “Beijing is going to be a lot different than PyeongChang. You shouldn’t compare the two experiences.”

“Why not?”

“You’re going to win gold, for one,” Yuuri points out, forcing a smile. Something tight catches in his throat, all knotted up and sour. “I, uh. I never managed to do that.”

Sutemi scoffs and turns back around as they exit the bridge walkway and turn down the street toward Yu-topia. “You won gold at the GPF and the competitions before that. So what if you lost in the Olympics? The fact that you went at all is incredible.”

“I didn’t even make the podium.”

Sutemi waves him off. “Yeah, well, neither did Nikiforov.”

Yuuri watches his feet as he walks, suddenly feeling rather numb all over. He  _hates_ talking about this with anyone. Mari and Phichit were the only ones who ever got him to talk about PyeongChang after it all blew up in his face so spectacularly, and even then, it took him months to spit out the entire story.

Sutemi curses softly, suddenly picking up on the heavy silence that has fallen between them. He winces. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—“

“You don’t need to apologize.”

They crest a hill, and finally Yu-topia is in sight. The windows of the onsen overflow with warm yellow light, the inky shadows of visitors dancing and weaving every which way. If Yuuri strains, he can hear the faint chords of a shamisen being played, the notes warped and twisted as they’re carried away on the sea breeze.

When Sutemi speaks, his voice is soft, reverent. “Do you ever think about him?” he asks.

It’s always the same question. 

For a moment, Yuuri considers telling him the real answer—the one he keeps hidden from the rest of the world, far away from prying eyes and ears. Yuuri could tell Sutemi that he thinks about Viktor all the time. He thinks of silver hair, of Viktor’s cheeky smiles and his coy smirks. He thinks of the way Viktor’s nimble fingers would dig into Yuuri’s hips until they bruised and the smell of him on their bedsheets in the morning—a smell Yuuri thought he would never, ever forget, but now he can’t recall it for the life of him.

Yuuri could tell Sutemi that he thinks of the arguments they had until their voices grew hoarse and jagged with emotion, the lack of sleep that came with sharing a bed with a stranger who didn't used to be strange at all.

He thinks of that suite in the Olympic village where Yuuri left his heart, raw and bleeding at Viktor’s feet.

He thinks of that, and he lies.

“No. Not anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are loved. Subscriptions are loved. Kudos are loved. SO MUCH LOVE. 
> 
> Also, pro tip: from here on out, pay attention to the dates that preface most of the sections. There are quite a few times jumps up until chapter seven, but they're all necessary and the dates usually correspond closely with other events in the story. I hope none of you get confused. It's not crucial to understanding things, but it may help. 
> 
> I recommend listening to "The Hours" soundtrack by Phillip Glass while reading this story. It's what I use to write.
> 
> EDITED 10/14: Minor stylistic adjustments.


	2. to do the useful thing, to say the courageous thing

* * *

 

_October 21, 2018 — eight months after the PyeongChang Olympics_

_Yuuri and Minako sit on the sidelines of the rink, their elbows leaning against the sill of the bracket as their eyes follow the boy who skates in large, lazy circles out on the ice. His form is… well, awful, but that’s not surprising, given his situation. The boy gradually builds up speed and launches himself into a shaky triple Lutz that he doesn’t land, but he manages to meet the rotation requirement by the skin of his teeth._

_“He’s a fixer-upper, I’ll give you that,” Minako says quietly. Her voice is more subdued that Yuuri’s ever heard it. “But my sister always said he was hard-working and a good kid. He’d make a good student.”_

_Yuuri’s eyebrows furrow as he deliberates, eyes still glued to the boy as he leads into a shaky step sequence that looks like it was put together by a five year-old. His twizzles need some tightening._

_Hesitantly, Yuuri reaches over and squeezes Minako’s hand where it clasps the sill, and he pretends not to notice the way her knuckles have blanched white from gripping it so tightly. “I’m— I’m sorry for what happened, Minako-sensei,” he says softly. “If your sister was anything like you, I would’ve liked to have met her.”_

_“I’m not the one who deserves your pity,” she tells him. Her voice is gruff, leaving no room for arguing. She gestures vaguely toward the boy as he finishes up his step sequence and proceeds into another sloppy jump combination. “Sutemi isn’t handling the loss very well, and neither is his father, if that phone call I got last week was anything to go by. What he needs right now is structure. I think you can give him that.”_

_Sutemi goes into an outer spread eagle that slips right past them, his head angled toward the ceiling and eyes closed. The routine is set to bouncing string music that’s not suited at all to the solemn expression on the boy’s face. Like an ill-fitting shoe, he hobbles through the moves with gangly limbs and uncoordinated feet that seem to want to go in two different directions—but he doesn’t get frustrated and stomp away. He simply powers through it._

_“He skates like an American,” is all Yuuri says, smiling to himself. “But he has potential. I’ll coach him, Minako-sensei. I would be crazy not to.”_

_She dips her head and doesn’t say anything in response for several seconds, and suddenly Yuuri is worried he’s said the wrong thing. Before he can apologize, however, she nods shakily._

_“Thank you, Yuuri,” she chokes out. “Thank you so much.”_  

 

* * *

  

_December 20, 2021_

 

Yuuri never thought he would like coaching.

He expected it to be hard. He expected backtalk and paperwork and countless late nights spent perfecting jumps at the rink. Celestino always seemed to be rushing around at a million miles an hour in Detroit, filling out mounds of competition paperwork and filing medical records with the JSF twice a month, all while supporting his students and helping them with their routines on the ice. In retrospect, Yuuri knows Celestino probably never slept a full eight hours during his coaching career. Yuuri expects his own coaching career to be rather similar, at least to some degree.

Sutemi is different, though. Receptive to instruction, respectful, and dedicated to the ice, Sutemi makes coaching _easy._ He never complains, even when his stomach is cramping from too many crunches and his feet are bruised and bleeding from too many quad Salchows and toe loops. He eats his required calories, keeps a steady appointment with his physical therapist, and he helps out at the ballet studio and the onsen whenever he has time.

It’s a point of personal pride whenever Yuuri catches Sutemi cracking a smile or laughing at a joke. When he first took Sutemi on as a student years ago, the boy had hardly flinched at anything; his father didn’t seem to want much to do with him after his mother’s death, choosing to ship his son off to Hasetsu instead of dealing with the problem, so Sutemi took it upon himself to feel the grief his father never bothered with.

Sutemi struggled on his own in Japan for several months before his emotions began to settle like dust after a harsh windstorm. Instead of focusing on what he’d lost, he concentrated on his skating and his education, merged his American upbringing with his Japanese heritage almost seamlessly, and by the time he was eighteen, he eventually stopped trying to reconnect to his father altogether. They still talk on the phone every once in a while, but their conversation topics are limited to Sutemi’s skating and the weather in New York and Hasetsu, respectively. It’s a small bandage for a gaping wound, but it’s worked well enough for the past four years.

Yuuri had trained him at Minako’s request. He drilled Sutemi harder than any other student at the rink, focusing on stamina, spins, and performance instead of flexibility. Sutemi has the advantage of upper body strength and height—an accidental gift from his American father—as well as the ability to perform complicated jumps in the second half of his programs. Sutemi’s lack of medals soon turned to bronze, then to silver, and finally to gold. He is _built_ to win the Olympics, and Yuuri is going to make it happen.

The days pass by in the blur as the date for the opening ceremony gets closer and closer. They pull longer hours at the rink together, running through his programs and sub-routines for hours at a time until he can practically skate them backwards. Sutemi focuses on weight training more than usual in hopes of counterbalancing Yuri Plisetsky’s incredible flexibility; it’s one of the few advantages he has over the Russian skater, and he plans to exploit it as best he can. With the way Sutemi’s been pushing himself this past year, going to the rink to coach him hardly even feels like a job.

Yuuri couldn’t ask for a better student. He couldn’t ask for a better _friend._

The problem with Sutemi being his friend, however, is that he’s an expert at reading Yuuri’s expression and body language. It’s remarkably inconvenient, all things considered.

They’re in the middle of practicing Sutemi’s free skate when he brings it up. Yuuri is gliding through the routine with him, mimicking gestures and reaching out to adjust arm and leg angles during key movements. He doesn’t do all the jumps with him, but he’s always there when his student touches down, flitting around the ice like his shadow to make corrections and offer pointers.

Sutemi goes into an outer spread eagle, Yuuri following closely behind. “So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Yuuri skates around to his left as Sutemi goes into a camel spin, noting the horizontal position of his leg. “Focus, Sutemi,” he says, ignoring the question. “Lower your foot two inches.”

Sutemi corrects the position and fluidly reaches around to pull his heel above his head, still spinning. When he comes out of it and begins to skate backwards, he makes brief eye contact with his coach. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“My student isn’t focusing on his routine. That’s what’s wrong.”

Sutemi rolls his eyes as he tucks in and leaps for a triple axel, landing it smoothly. “Sensei, I know when something’s bothering you. Fess up.”

Yuuri falls in behind his student and mirrors his step sequence. His eyes remain fixed on Sutemi’s skates, but he knows his ears are starting to burn. Sutemi’s American brashness always comes out when he wants something. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Liar.”

“ _Focus_.”

“I’ve done this routine a million times!” he argues, slipping into an elegant Ina Bauer. He covers his eyes with both hands and proceeds into the next part of his step sequence, teeth flashing as he grins in the direction of his coach. “See? I could do it blindfolded.”

Yuuri reaches out and swats his hands away from his face before skating back out of range. “Shall we test that?” he calls out.

“Do you think it would earn me extra points with the judges?”

Yuuri snorts, sliding in a wide circle around Sutemi has he begins a series of complex spins. “I would certainly be impressed, but I’m not sure the higher-ups would appreciate it. Maybe next year.”

“You’re still avoiding the question,” he points out airily, his voice fading every other second as he spins. His hair flutters wildly about his face, wavy tendrils turning stick-straight from the velocity. When he comes out of his crouched spin, he begins weaving lazily across the ice backwards, hands slicing through the air as the music builds to a crescendo. “Are you nervous about the Olympics?”

Yuuri darts in close and presses a hand to the underside of Sutemi’s thigh, shifting his leg forward a little bit for proper positioning. He mirrors the movements as they work their way into the final part of the program—a quad Salchow and triple toe loop combination.

“Of course I’m nervous,” Yuuri says, following his forward inside bracket turn. “I want you to do well. It reflects on me just as much as it reflects on you.”

“That’s not what I meant, sensei.”

“Well then, what _did_ you mean?”

Sutemi makes a noise in the back of his throat as he leads into a closed Mohawk turn at the end of the rink. He skates backwards, building up speed, and Yuuri follows closely with every intention of jumping concurrently with his student. He sucks in a breath and gets ready to—

“Are you nervous to see Viktor?”

Yuuri’s knee buckles as he pushes off the ice, stunting his intended height and sending him crashing to the ground in a mess of flailing limbs. It’s the worst landing he’s ever made—not in terms of injury, but in terms of sheer embarrassment. Yuuri lands hard on his left side close to the edge of the rink and gradually slides to a stop against the bracket with a groan.

Sutemi lands the Salchow (because of _course_ he does) but skips the toe loop in an effort to avoid his coach’s body as it rests sprawled in a heap on the ice. He skids to a halt.

“Shit,” he blurts, switching over to English in his horror. “Yuuri, are you okay?”

Yuuri doesn’t make any moves to get up. He simply pushes against the ice and flips onto his back to stare up at the blinding industrial lights that hang above their heads. When Sutemi skates up to him and looks down in concern, Yuuri manages to muster a weak glare.

“You are just… the _worst_ skating student. Have I ever told you that?”

All at once, Sutemi’s concern melts off his face. “Oh, you’re fine. Christ, you had me worried there for a second.” He holds out a hand to his coach to help him up. “Come on, old man. Let’s get you off the ice.”

“I am not old!”

“You turned thirty, like, a month ago. You’re _old_ , sensei. Verging on ancient.”

Yuuri contemplates kicking Sutemi’s feet out from under him, but that probably wouldn’t be smart considering the Olympics aren’t that far away. Instead, he begrudgingly takes Sutemi’s offered hand and gets to his feet before skating off the ice. He favors his left side; there will be a large bruise on his hip tomorrow morning, that’s for sure.

The second they reach the carpet, Yuuri slaps his guards on his skates and collapses onto a bench with a pained groan. Sutemi follows suit, taking the spot on the bench next to him.

“Sorry about that,” he says, not really sounding sorry at all. He unlaces his skates with nimble fingers and sets them aside before reaching down to massage his sore feet. He raises an eyebrow. “I’m taking that as a yes in response to my question, though. You never miss that jump.”

As much as he wants to turn around and deny it, Yuuri knows he can’t. After training together for four years, Sutemi knows his expressions better than Yuuri does, and lying is something he will never, ever do to his student. Even if it means humiliating himself so readily in front of him.

Yuuri sighs softly and rubs the back of his neck. “I may be… a little bit anxious about the whole thing.”

Sutemi nods as if he expected this answer. “I figured. When was the last time you saw him?”

Technically, the last time Yuuri saw Viktor was at the 2020 GPF, but they hadn’t spoken or even acknowledged that the other person was there at all, so he’s not sure if that really counts. “I’m not sure. The last time I actually spoke to him was… a long time ago. 2019, I think. You were there.”

His face twists in distaste. “Shaking hands in front of reporters hardly counts as talking.” He reaches down and begins to massage his own feet, wincing as he continues, “Do you think he’ll try anything funny in Beijing? Assuming Plisetsky makes it to the finals, I mean. He might screw up big-time and break both of his legs or something.”

“Don’t count on it,” Yuuri mutters. He stuffs his skates in his duffel bag and slips on his sneakers, continuing, “I’d bet every cent your father’s given me that Yurio will see you in Beijing. Don’t underestimate him—or Viktor, for that matter. They’ll be the ones to beat.”

“You’re avoiding the question again.”

Yuuri lets out an exasperated huff. “What do you expect me to say? That I’m terrified to run into Viktor? That I’ll punch him on sight?”

A devious smile splits his youthful face. “Now _there’s_ an idea.”

“I’m not going to punch him,” Yuuri says flatly.

“I could do it for you.”

“ _No._ ”

“All right, all right,” he relents, grinning. “But you were the one who suggested it in the first place.” Sutemi hums lowly as he packs up the rest of his bag and puts his shoes on. He bites the inside of his cheek and frowns thoughtfully. “Anyway, I don’t expect any kind of answer from you. I’m just trying to figure out how to help.”

“Help,” he repeats.

“Well, yeah,” Sutemi replies as if it’s obvious. “You’re my coach, Yuuri. Nikiforov fucked you up after PyeongChang and everybody knows it. I mean, I wasn’t there after it happened and you never told me the exact details, but I’m not blind.”

Yuuri knows his face has gradually cycled through all shades of pink on the spectrum and is now verging beet-red territory. He can’t even begin to express how much he does _not_ want to talk about this with his student. “Shouldn’t we be focusing on you instead?” he asks weakly.

“Nah,” he shrugs. “The Olympics are a big deal, but when it comes down to it, it’s just another competition.” Sutemi pulls his grey hoodie over his head and shakes out his choppy hair, tousling the front with his long fingers. “Besides, it’s not like my dad’s going to be there to watch. I’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

Yes, because there’s absolutely _nothing_ nerve-wracking about competing in the Olympics on international television. Nothing at all _._ Yuuri wants to tell him this, but his words stick in his throat as they usually do when someone brings up Viktor in conversation, and he ends up silently nodding in agreement because there’s nothing else he can do.

Sutemi bumps Yuuri’s shoulder good-naturedly when the silence stretches on too long. “Come on,” he says. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Yuuri wishes he could let the words slip out of his mouth in a deluge of half-panicked half-sorrowful syllables, but he simply… can’t. The scar tissue that results from an injury is always tougher and more durable, but the wound on Yuuri’s heart is only half-healed and sloppily bandaged. Even after all this time, he’s not sure he can risk reopening it just to see if he can stitch himself back together a little better the second time around.

Yuuri stands and shoulders his bag with a low exhale, wincing as pain shoots up his left side. He beckons Sutemi toward the door of Ice Castle. “Come on,” he says quietly, not looking at his student. “Let’s call it a night. Same time tomorrow, yeah?”

Sutemi frowns, clearly displeased with his answer, but he wisely doesn’t press the situation. “Sure. See you in the morning, Yuuri-sensei.”

 

* * *

 

_February 15, 2018 — PyeongChang, South Korea_

 

_It is just past one in the morning and Katsuki Yuuri is packing up to leave._

_He suspects the entire building is empty at the moment, the countless floors beneath him completely drained of his fellow figure skaters as they both celebrate and lament the results of the awards ceremony from several hours ago. The building echoes eerily in their absence; Yuuri’s footsteps sound louder to his own ears as he pads around the suite, gathering his things. The peace and quiet helped him make his decision more easily, of course, but he can’t help hating the silence, as stifling as it is._

_Despite the stuttering of his heartbeat, Yuuri’s hands are steady as he pulls a dress shirt from the closet, folds it neatly, and places it inside his suitcase. His toiletries are tucked next to his socks and his skating outfit is crumpled in one corner, but he can’t be bothered to fold it; it’s not like he’s ever going to wear it again. His skates go in last, laces tied together in a small bow._

_Yuuri doesn’t give himself the chance to change his mind about this. He zips up his bag, grabs his phone, and heads for the door with determined steps and shaky knees._

_He leaves his ring on the bedside table._

  

* * *

  

_January 6, 2022_

 

Three weeks before the opening ceremony, Mari stops by Yuuri’s apartment with a plate of squid sashimi.

She stands outside his door with her hair tied back in a ratty bun, a few ends slipping out of its elastic confines to stick wildly in all directions; her hair is not yet long enough to stay tied back for any stretch of time, but Mari has never been one to admit defeat so easily—especially to an inanimate object like a _hair tie,_ of all things. An unsmoked cigarette rests behind her ear, ready to smoke should the need arise.

“Mari—“ is all Yuuri has time to say before she shoves the plate of sashimi in his hands and brushes past him into his apartment.

Yuuri stands in the doorway for several seconds longer than necessary, trying his hardest to figure out why his sister is suddenly here with a plate of squid and _zero_ explanation. He didn’t miss her birthday, and their parents’ birthdays are in the summer. It’s not a holiday, either...

Yeah, he has no idea why she’s here.

He heaves a soft sigh and turns back inside, closing the door behind him with his foot. Mari has settled herself on the sofa in the living room and is crushing one of his throw pillows to her chest while she lazily browses her phone. She doesn’t spare him a glance.

Yuuri takes note of Mari’s shoes, which have been haphazardly tossed across the room. “By all means,” he says flatly, “make yourself at home.”

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow and glances pointedly at the plate in his hands. “I just brought you free food. You could stand to be a little more grateful.”

Yuuri sets the plate down on the table in the center of the room and falls into the couch next to his sister. He yanks the pillow away from her despite her protestations and gingerly puts it back into its proper place on the other side of the couch. “The sashimi doesn’t explain why you barged into my apartment without warning.”

“First off,” Mari says, leaning over him and snatching the pillow back, “it’s not _your_ apartment. It’s still part of Minako’s studio—”

He waves her off and sinks back into the cushions. “Semantics. The space is mine and I pay rent. Thus, my apartment.”

“Secondly,” she says, ignoring him. “’Temi says you’re acting weird lately and he’s worried about you. I’m just the one who drew the short straw and had to come and check on you, so… ta-da. Here I am.”

Yuuri’s face sours. “I’m not acting weird.”

“He says you’re moping a lot. Apparently you get a constipated look on your face every time he talks about the Olympics or something.” She shrugs, going back to scrolling through her phone. “I don’t know the details, I’m just here to squeeze you for information.”

He blinks up at the ceiling, silently wondering how much effort it would take to go next door and smother Sutemi with a pillow. “Huh. How’s the sashimi factor into all of this?”

“It’s a perk.”

“A perk,” he repeats.

Mari sighs in exasperation and wheels her hand through the air, searching for the words. “Oh, you know how mom is. She’s worried you’re not eating enough now that she can’t manually shovel food down your throat all hours of the day.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes and huffs. “I moved out two years ago. She still hasn’t stopped fretting over my eating habits?”

“Nope, and I don’t think she ever will.” With a flourish of fingers, Mari pulls up Instagram and begins to scroll through her feed, a bored expression on her face. “So, are you gonna tell me what’s wrong or do I have to threaten you?”

“I’m fine, nee-chan. Just stressed.”

“You were a shitty liar when you came back from PyeongChang and you’re a shitty liar now,” she mutters under her breath. With what appears to be a monumental effort, she puts her phone back in her pocket and hugs the pillow to her chest as she turns to face him on the couch. She nudges Yuuri’s knee with her socked foot. “This is about Viktor, isn’t it? He’s going to be in Beijing.”

Yuuri’s expression darkens and suddenly he wants to throw the squid sashimi out the nearest window. “Not _all_ of my problems have to do with Viktor. I don’t know why everyone just assumes that.”

“Probably because it’s true.”

“It’s _not.”_

Mari opens her mouth to retort but thinks better of it at the last second, clacking her teeth together. Instead, she bites the inside of her cheek and considers her words carefully. Yuuri wonders how quickly he can get her out of his apartment so he can go sulk in his bedroom until he leaves for Beijing in February.

Slowly, Mari’s foot presses against Yuuri’s thigh once, twice. “Yuuri,” she murmurs, her voice slightly sing-song. She sighs. “Come on, little brother, talk to me. We’re all worried about you—‘Temi especially. He’s probably got his ear pressed against one of the walls right now just to make sure you’re okay.”

“Really, I’m fine,” Yuuri assures her. He fiddles with a loose thread on his sleeve and shrugs noncommittally. “I mean, I’m a little nervous about the whole thing, but it’s not a big deal. I won’t let it interfere with my coaching. Sutemi knows that.”

“That’s not why he’s worried,” Mari says while waving a hand dismissively. Her numerous piercings jingle as she leans closer to her brother, her head tilting to one side in curiosity. “He’s worried because he knows how hard this will be for you. He wants to help you however he can, but he says you won’t talk to him or anybody else.”

“It’s just like any other competition.”

“It’s not, Yuuri.”

“The only difference is the number of competitors and cameras,” he shoots back, suddenly feeling entirely irritated with this line of questioning.

Mari gives him a pitying look. “The last time you were at the Olympics—“

“I think I know what happened better than you do!” Yuuri snaps through gritted teeth.

Silence. For several moments, the only sound in the room is the soft sound of muffled string music from Minako’s studio next door as she gives lessons. Mari’s eyebrows have shot up into her hairline and she slowly leans away, distancing herself from her brother as much as possible. She pulls the cigarette from behind her ear and starts to fiddle with it mindlessly, a frown etched deeply into her features.

“Wow,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “You’re in worse shape than I thought.”

Yuuri flinches at her tone and a wave of guilt follows on its coattails, flooding through his veins like ice. He sputters wordlessly for a second. “No! I-I mean, I didn’t— mean that, I just…” He takes a deep breath like Minako taught him. “I’m sorry, nee-chan. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

She nods, accepting his apology, and regards him carefully. “You’re not all right, are you?” she asks, her voice soft.

Yuuri exhales slowly and deflates, sinking back into the couch cushions. He wishes he could simply disappear into the upholstery at this point, but he eventually finds the strength to answer, “No. No, I’m not.”

“Talk to me,” she implores. “ _Please_. You can’t bottle this up like everything else.”

“There’s nothing to say,” he laments, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m probably freaking myself out for nothing, honestly. Beijing’s village is huge. There’s no guarantee we’ll see each other outside of the competition itself.”

“Do you _want_ to see him?”

And there it is. The most loaded question in the world. Yuuri struggles to figure out an answer, discovers he doesn’t have one, and vomits every word that runs through his head. “No. Yes. I—“ he chokes. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Mari considers this. “Hmm. Well, can I give you my opinion?”

Yuuri blinks. “You— isn’t that what you’ve been doing this whole time?”

“I think you should talk to him,” she says with no preamble. Yuuri’s eyes widen but before he can give a hard _no_ to that idea, she holds up a hand to silence him. “Before you start losing your mind, hear me out for a second. I hate Viktor on principle because he broke your heart and you’re my little brother, but I think you should clear the air with him in Beijing while you have the chance. Maybe if you got some closure, you’d feel better.”

“Or maybe it’d make me feel worse,” he counters.

“ _Can_ you feel any worse at this point?” she asks incredulously. “Honestly, it’s not like you have anything to lose. If it goes well, great. If he doesn’t want to talk, whatever. All you can do is try.”

Though it pains him to admit it, Mari is right. The only thing Yuuri would be risking is his dignity, but he’s never had much of that where Viktor is concerned, anyway. Theoretically, talking to him in Beijing would be… ideal.

“I’ll think about it,” he says simply, and reaches for the squid sashimi on the table.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop me a line, fam.


	3. down the rabbit-hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did something a little different with this one. Also, sorry in advance for how short it is. I was going to make it 7,000 words at least because of how short the last two chapters have been, but life caught up with me and I wanted to get out my weekly update even if it’s not what I was hoping. (Alas, I am visiting my sister in the city. I’m too busy to sit down and write for six hours at a time.)
> 
> Anyway, the next chapter will finish what this one starts. I promise it’ll be super long next time. Annoyingly long, even.

* * *

  

_February 15, 2018 – PyeongChang, South Korea_

 

 _It is half past one in the morning, and Viktor is exhausted._  
  
_He trudges down the endless hallway toward the suite he shares with Yuuri, longing for a warm, pliant mattress and a pillow where he can rest his head until their flight the next morning. If he’s especially lucky, he’ll have a fiancé to go with the aforementioned bed and pillow, but after their argument earlier that day, he’s not going to hold his breath; Viktor might be facing another few hours of the silent treatment._  
  
_He deserves it, admittedly, but still. It sucks._

_Viktor isn’t entirely sure what their argument had even been about in the first place—something stupid, probably. With a sigh, Viktor fishes the keycard out of his pocket and unlocks the door to his suite. A quiet night and a late morning are the only things he needs at this point. He’ll apologize to Yuuri tomorrow._

 

* * *

  

_December 11, 2021 — Munich, Germany_

 

Most days, it’s easy for Viktor to forget.  
  
Forgetting is practically second-nature for him. He has always had a terrible memory for appointments, and he tends to make promises on a whim without considering his prior commitments. He sleeps in on days he shouldn’t, forgets lunch dates with Mila and Georgi, and ignores questions from reporters about competitions from his past that he  _should_  remember but simply doesn’t.  
  
Forgetting PyeongChang is a little harder. After four years, the memory of that night in the Olympic village is a wine stain on his lapel—difficult to remove, but the mulberry splotch grows fainter with every rinse cycle, even if it doesn’t completely go away. The years have been kind to him, turning once-sharp images of bright smiles and rumpled bedsheets into muddled watercolor memoirs of a too-clean hotel room, a door left ajar, and a gold ring left behind on a bedside table.  
  
Some days, though, it’s not quite as easy to forget.  
  
It’s the little things, you see. Small, seemingly inconsequential moments of his day that slip beneath his skin and prickle him from the inside out. Once, it was the type of tea Mila made herself before practice—green jasmine, Yuuri’s favorite. Another time, it was the way Yurio had sputtered wordlessly when Otabek showed up at the St. Petersburg rink with a visa in his hand and a suitcase next to his feet.  
  
Small. Inconsequential. Stupid.  
  
But as the weeks turn to months and the months turn to years, the number of occurrences dwindles. It’s easier to smile, run with Makkachin, and train Yurio until he’s cursing at Viktor in every language he knows. Coaching helps him forget, and soon he’s too focused on training little Yurio—who, incidentally, is not so little anymore—to care about anything else.  
  
It’s almost  _easy._

 

_(Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank and of having nothing to do.)_

  
  
At the edge of the rink, Yurio winds up his arm and hurls his gold medal across the ice as hard as he can, eyes narrowed into slits and teeth bared in a feral grimace. Rage is etched into every muscle, every twitch of his fingers as he watches it arc through the air and fall, metal sparkling seductively as it spins. The medal bounces with a melodious clang against the ice.  
  
Viktor stands behind his student in silence. He knows how to pick his battles.  
  
“Pointless,” Yurio spits, syllables dripping with fury more astringent than any poison. “The entire competition was  _pointless_.”  
  
His words echo throughout the rink, voice bouncing effortlessly around the massive space. Munich’s rink is no longer bright and bustling with the presence of reporters, sponsors, and fans; it is now painted in cinereous shades of grey, the sparse overhead lights casting long shadows on the walls and reminding them both of the late hour. They need to go back to their hotel to pack.  
  
Viktor purses his lips, considering his words carefully. “Just because something is easy doesn’t mean it’s pointless. Many people would kill to have that gold medal you just tossed.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Yuri challenges, whirling around. His sea-glass eyes are sharp enough to cut. “Well then, why don’t you explain how I won by a thirty-point margin at the goddamn Grand Prix? Explain to me how those idiots who dare to call themselves skaters posed  _any_  kind of threat to me at all. Tell me that entire competition wasn’t meaningless and  _maybe_  I’ll consider not melting down that stupid gold necklace for scrap metal.”  
  
“You were going to win regardless of who showed up. You know that.”  
  
“Fuck off, crypt keeper. It was a throwaway competition and you know it,” he snaps, turning back to the ice. The hood of his jacket hangs low over his eyes, strands of hair creating a spun-gold curtain that conceals his face.  
  
Viktor says nothing because Yuri is absolutely right—it  _had_  been a throwaway competition. Five bottom-of-the-barrel skaters from obscure countries had qualified for the competition in place of the ones who actually had the talent to be there, providing next to no challenge for Yuri when the time came.  
  
Viktor had called Christophe Giacometti the second the lineup was announced. He asked why.  
  
“It’s to conserve energy,” Chris explained flippantly. “The GPF is small-time next to the Olympics, Viktor. Luca wants to make sure he reaches peak performance at the games. It’s simple strategy.”  
  
A simple strategy, indeed, but one Viktor had disagreed with—at the time. Now he can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach, knowing just how much time they swept under the rug for the sake of defending a title that doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.  
  
Viktor is aware his silence has gone on too long. At the edge of the ice, Yuri stuffs his fists into the pockets of his jacket and shuffles his feet. “Look, I get why Luca wasn’t there. That asshole’s gonna need all the practice time he can get if he wants to beat me at the Olympics,” he mutters. He sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly through his teeth. “I just… I really thought Sutemi would show up. Give me  _some_  sort of challenge, you know?”  
  
Standing in that empty ice rink with clenched fists shoved deeply in the pockets of his overcoat, there is a clawing in Viktor’s heart. Raw and bitter, he bleeds in earnest from a wound that never truly healed, stitched haphazardly by someone who never knew what they were doing with a needle and thread in the first place.  
  
“We shouldn’t have come here,” Yurio mutters.  
  
He turns on his heel and walks past Viktor to the doors of the rink. Viktor hesitates only for a brief moment before he turns and follows, tucking his collar up to fend off the early December chill. They leave the medal where it lies.

  
  
_(So Alice was considering, in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her.)_

 

From an outside view, the return trip to St. Petersburg is entirely uneventful. They fly first class and Yurio perches his feet on the back of the seat in front of him, blasting music through his headphones loudly enough to be heard from several rows away. Meanwhile, Viktor contents himself with reading a shamelessly smutty novel that Christophe had recommended to him a few weeks ago. (“It’s  _literature_ , Viktor.”)  
  
As far as flights go, it’s not bad.  
  
The problem, however, comes in the form of free Wi-Fi.  
  
They are four hours into their late-night trip when Viktor pulls out his phone, fingers itching for something to do. The brightness of his screen startles Yurio in his sleep; he grumbles something under his breath about the Russian national anthem and spicy mustard not going well together before he curls away from Viktor, face lost in a sea of yellow hair and leopard-print headphones.  
  
Viktor dims his screen perfunctorily before opening Instagram to do his daily rounds. With the ceremony in two months, all of his skating friends are posting pictures of their practices for the world to see. Christophe uploads endless photographs of his student Luca, all of them captioned with quips about winning and a lack of filters. Phichit posts boomerang clips and photo collages of his practices, showcasing the quads he’s been working on for the last several months; it’s his last year before he officially retires, so he has to make it count. Viktor hopes he does well—not too well, of course, but well enough.  
  
He is scrolling aimlessly through Phichit’s endless barrage of photos—Viktor needs to step up his selfie game, it seems—when one catches his eye. It depicts the Thai skater on his bed, his hair rumpled and hamsters clinging to his shoulders for dear life. At his side is a sleek laptop balanced precariously on a stack of pillows, showing a familiar man with eyes of the deepest brown, blue glasses, and hair that’s grown out just a little since Viktor last saw him—  
  
_(In another moment down went Alice after the rabbit, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.)_  
  
For several seconds, Viktor stares at the screen as his fingers go slowly numb. He doesn’t know what to do. Yuuri has never been one for social media, so seeing his face on Instagram, no matter how pixelated and fuzzy, is a treasure (no, a  _tragedy_ ). Yuuri isn’t quite smiling in the Skype call video feed, caught in the middle of what could be a sneeze or a sentence—Viktor isn’t sure which. It’s almost… endearing. Familiar.  
  
He considers locking his phone and never looking at Instagram again.  
  
Maybe he could like the post?  
  
_No_. He should screenshot it.  
  
He saves the screenshot to a folder deep in the recesses of his phone’s memory where only he can find it, but shame curls his toes and sets his jaw in quick succession. He has no right to like that photo—wait, no, he has every right, dammit. It’s just a picture from Instagram, put on display for the entire world to see. What’s the harm in saving it?  
  
_(Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do.)_  
  
Viktor never does anything halfway. He looks up Sutemi next.  
  
If Yuuri is a social media desert, his star student is a lush oasis. Since his senior debut under Yuuri’s tutelage, the boy has amassed a following enviable of Phichit’s and Yurio’s; his fans love to obsess over the light dusting of freckles on his nose and the half-smile that melts teenage hearts all over the world. He’s a brilliant skater, thanks to Yuuri, and probably the only person on the circuit who threatens Yurio’s winning streak.  
  
But, more importantly, he uploads the occasional snap of his beloved coach to his Instagram, and that’s what Viktor’s really interested in.  
  
Of all the horrible ideas Viktor’s had over the years, this one probably ranks in the top three. He scrolls furiously, scanning each image for any hint of Yuuri: a guiding hand from off-screen, a voice in the background of a video,  _anything_. It’s stupid and desperate, he knows, but he doesn’t care. His judgment has always been questionable when it comes to matters concerning Yuuri, so he might as fall to the bottom of the rabbit hole while he’s got a head start. He can claw his way back to the surface later.  
  
The onsen looks well in Sutemi’s photos, as does the Ice Castle; both places have expanded with the money from Yuuri’s sponsorships and his residual fame. Even Minako’s studio seems full to bursting with students eager to learn ballet from the woman who taught gold-medalist Yuuri Katsuki how to dance. Yuuri’s older sister apparently got married last spring to a man with tattoos on his arms and piercings in his nose, and they both look so happy in Sutemi’s photos that it makes Viktor wonder whether or not it’s appropriate to send a gift eight months late to congratulate them on a wedding he wasn’t even invited to.  
  
Yuuri is in many of these photos in some way or another. He’s in the background most of the time, eyes wide with the realization that someone is taking a picture and the feeling of  _oh, god, please don’t post that, Sutemi_. A couple of photos and videos from the rink show Yuuri standing on the ice with his arms crossed and his expression unusually stern; his voice is different when he’s in coaching mode, but it’s not a bad thing. Authority suits him.  
  
There are only a handful of snaps where Yuuri actually looks prepared and photogenic. Viktor screenshots every single one.  
  
He misses Yuuri. This is not surprising—Viktor started missing Yuuri the second he walked out of their suite in PyeongChang. Admittedly, the feeling may have been overshadowed by anger and gut-wrenching anguish for a little while, but it was always there, lurking in the pit of his chest like an ember that never quite dimmed.  
  
Viktor closes Instagram and dives headfirst into his screenshot folder. He swipes back and forth and back again, eyes drinking in the sight of Yuuri like it’s the only reason he’s still breathing.  
  
Stupid. Pathetic. He doesn’t care—  
  
And yet he can’t bear to look away.  
  
Viktor lingers on one photo in particular as he wars with himself. In the picture, Yuuri is wearing a blue yukata and standing on the front steps of the onsen; his feet are bare and his dark hair has been pushed away from his face in the summer sea breeze, ruffling the tendrils just so. His glasses have slipped down his nose and he is in the midst of reaching to push them back up, but his long fingers are frozen in time, scant inches from their intended destination.  
  
Viktor hates him. He misses him. He—  
  
“What the hell are you doing?”  
  
_(Suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.)_  
  
In a flash, Viktor locks his phone and attempts to stow it in his pocket. Yurio is faster, however, and he manages to snatch the phone out of Viktor’s hands before it disappears from view.  
  
Yurio clumsily unlocks the phone and squints at the display in the darkness of the airplane. He makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Christ, Viktor. Seriously?”  
  
“It’s nothing,” Viktor murmurs. It’s the complete opposite of nothing, really, but he’s hesitant to admit that in such a public space.  
  
Yurio gives him a flat look. “I don’t think stalking Katsudon on Instagram counts as  _nothing_. You literally have a folder of these photos on your phone. That’s pretty fucked up.”  
  
“I know,” he says, raking a hand through the mercury tangles in his hair. His cheeks are burning. “Trust me, I  _know_.”  
  
“Well, at least you’re self-aware,” he mutters. Yurio locks Viktor’s phone and stashes it in the pocket of his leopard-print hoodie, ignoring Viktor’s squeak of protest. He turns his glare on his coach. “It’s been four years. How are you not over him?”  
  
“I am over him,” he refutes. But Yurio raises a skeptical eyebrow. “I am…  _mostly_  over him.”  
  
He makes a soft _tch_ noise of disbelief, sinking back into his seat. “I knew the Olympics were going to fuck with your head. That’s why you were looking, right?”  
  
_Yes_. “No.”  
  
Yuri rolls his eyes and mutters something about liars under his breath. He sinks into his seat. “Look, I get it, all right? The games are coming up and you’re getting all mopey. Mila told me this would happen.”  
  
Viktor sighs and rubs his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted. He’d really rather not discuss this on a plane packed full of people. “It’s not a big deal. I just got a little carried away, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.”  
  
“You stored, like, fifteen photos of the guy. Cut the crap.”  
  
He sucks in a deep breath, not entirely sure what Yurio wants him to say to that. Viktor is the master of meaningless conversation—reporters and countless interviews have honed that skill to razor sharpness—but this little exchange is verging on the uncharted territory of  _too real, too difficult_  and Viktor isn’t sure what to do about it.  
  
“This won’t affect my coaching,” is what he settles on, but it sounds paper-thin and fragile to his own ears. “The Olympic village in Beijing is huge, so I probably won’t even see him. I’m not worried unless you are.”  
  
Yurio scoffs, sneering, “The one who needs to worry is him. That son of a bitch ruined you. If I see his face, I’ll—“  
  
“You will do  _nothing_.” Viktor’s voice is sharp, heavy with authority. He is absolute. “Do not start a fight you can’t finish, little Yurio, and don’t finish a fight that isn’t yours. Do you understand me?”  
  
Yurio opens his mouth to retort with something, but his teeth clack together at the last second and he falls into begrudging silence. He settles on a glare instead, though it’s only half as venomous as usual.  
  
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I understand.”

   
_(There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again.)_

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment! I love hearing from you guys.


	4. for last year's words belong to last year's language

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god writing these two in an unhealthy relationship is legitimately upsetting

* * *

_February 15, 2018 — PyeongChang, South Korea_

_The sight that greets Viktor upon entering the suite is not, he initially thinks, all that unusual._

_Yuuri stands just on the other side of the door with sleep-shadowed eyes blown wide with surprise, hair mussed with the repeated abuse of nervous fingers carding through the strands. Viktor checks the time on his watch—Yuuri doesn’t usually stay up this late._

_“You didn’t have to wait up for me,” Viktor says softly. He edges past his fiancé, being careful to limit their touching to the barest brush of shoulders. He stretches his arms over his head and winces at the slight pinprick of pain that reverberates through his left shoulder with the movement._

_Behind him, Yuuri says nothing. The silent treatment had been expected, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less unpleasant._

_But Viktor knows his fiancé, so he doesn’t press for more conversation; wringing out a rag too tightly can tear the cloth, and he’d really rather not push his luck tonight. Their combined loss on the Olympic stage is still fresh in their minds, too raw, too tender to poke and prod at. Another argument would only make things worse._

_He sheds his red and white Team Russia jacket and tosses it over the back of an armchair before sitting down on the edge of their bed nearest the large window that overlooks the rest of the village. He slips his phone out of the back pocket of his trousers and leans over to set it on the bedside table next to Yuuri’s ring._

_And in an instant, Viktor’s heart stops beating altogether._

* * *

 

 

 

_December 12, 2021_

In hindsight, letting Yurio leave his medal in Munich had probably not been the best idea. The rate at which Yakov’s face is purpling with rage is actually starting to get a little bit concerning, and Viktor’d really rather not watch his former coach have an aneurysm in the middle of the rink, if it’s all the same to him. 

Yurio stands at Viktor’s side, lips pursed and blades scraping the ice noncommittally as he waits for Yakov to start breathing again, wisely keeping quiet for once in his life. Viktor also says nothing; he knows when to fight with Yakov and when to sit back and take his shouting as it comes. This is _definitely_ one of those times.

There is a vein bulging in Yakov’s forehead, swollen with heated blood that is quite possibly boiling beneath the old man’s skin. He gesticulates wildly, words coming out in small, half-choked verbalizations that don’t technically qualify as words at all. Yurio raises an eyebrow when Yakov lets out a particularly concerning noise that sounds a suspiciously like a cat in the process of being strangled to death. Yurio looks to Viktor with a question in his eyes; Viktor simply shrugs. All they can do is let his anger run its course.

Viktor tries his best to pay attention—really, he does—but as the minutes drag on, Yakov’s words gradually become muffled and distant. Sentences warp into unrecognizable amalgamations of sound, and Yakov’s syllables become little more than hollow-sounding echoes, mere shells of words he doesn’t really care to understand.

Viktor’s cell phone feels unnaturally heavy in the pocket of his sweatpants, unused and burning a hole in the soft fabric against his thigh. _Maybe Sutemi uploaded another picture this morning_ , his brain whispers, tilling the soil around a seed that had been planted so easily the night prior. His fingers twitch, aching to dive head-first into Instagram—he wants to look, needs to _know._ Maybe if he looks at photos of his former fiancé, seeing him at the Olympics in six weeks won’t be nearly as gut-wrenchingly horrible as it usually is.

(It’s a lie, but Viktor has never been good at lying—to other people, sure, but never to _himself_. He exists in a world of half-truths and clever evasions, dodging questions from reporters and friends alike with enviable gracefulness. He is a master of giving perfectly reasonable non-answers to those who delve too deep, too greedily into his affairs. Lying outright, though—no, he’s never been good at that.)

After what feels like hours, Yakov finally manages to let out a few Russian curse words and stalks away from the two of them, somehow managing to stomp his feet in _skates_ , of all things. Viktor reminds himself to buy his old coach some coffee tomorrow morning as an apology.

As soon as their cantankerous manager is out of sight, Yurio scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Fucking _finally_. Thought he’d never shut up.”

“He means well,” Viktor reasons, stretching his arms above his head—the further his fingers are from his left pocket, the better.

Yurio only sneers. “Yeah, well, he was eating up my practice time.”

Viktor withholds a sigh, but just barely. After working with Yurio for so long, he’s used to the boy’s temperament, but he is just _really_ not in the mood for it this morning. “The opening ceremony is six weeks away. Ten minutes out of your four-hour slot isn’t going to ruin you.”

“It might,” he bites out, snapping his head toward Viktor. “ _You_ had plenty of practice time and you still fucked up your free skate. Anything could happen.”

Viktor doesn’t flinch at the memory, but it still stings like the pinprick of a needle. He remembers the way his knee gave out during his quad flip like it had only happened yesterday—hot lights beating down on him from above, a disappointed groan from the audience when he touched down on his triple axel, the absence of Yuuri at the sidelines. It was the worst he’d ever skated, the commentators had said.

“You’re right,” Viktor says slowly. “Still, I don’t think you should worry. Our circumstances are very different.”

“Damn right they’re different,” he says haughtily and pushes off against the ice, skating toward the center of the rink. He strikes the starting pose for his free skate and looks expectantly back at his coach. “You gonna start my music or what, old man? I’ve got better places to be.”

Diligently, Viktor skates to the edge of the rink and reaches around the bracket for the tiny black stereo remote, pressing his finger against the center button that is worn from years of Yakov’s furious mashing. As faint tendrils of music begin to fill the arena, Viktor leans his elbows back against the sill and plants his toe pick as he prepares to watch his student.

The routine is good. Better than good, if Viktor is being honest. He’d picked an arrangement of Stravinsky’s _Firebird_ for his free skate music; it had been Otabek’s idea originally, and Yurio had taken it and turned it into something incredible, something worthy of every scrap of gold in Beijing.

Yurio has come a long way since his senior debut all those years ago: his jumps are higher and more graceful, and his signature ballet moves always give him a hefty boost in points when he performs with them in competition. His growth spurt, while impressive—he can now look Viktor in the eye, and he’s got a couple inches on Otabek, much to Yurio’s feral delight—was thankfully short-lived; his balance quickly evened out before he turned seventeen, and he’s been unstoppable ever since.

The music begins to speed up. Yurio keeps up with the rapid-fire tempo of the instruments as he works his way through a brief step sequence and combination spin with an effortlessness Viktor remembers from his own days of competitive skating. He moves across the ice with fluid, determined steps and a peaceful expression on his face uncharacteristic of the usual snarl that resides there.

Viktor watches raptly as a few golden locks of hair come out of Yurio’s braid during a languid camel spin. They float weightlessly around his face as he straightens and leads into a short step sequence, the strands framing his intense expression with a contrasting softness—

 

_“I could grow it out again, you know,” Viktor hums, rolling over. He rests his head on Yuuri’s chest and melts into a puddle as his fiancé cards his long, slender fingers through Viktor’s hair. The sunlight coming through the window is warm on his bare back. “I know you liked it long.”_

_“I did,” Yuuri admits. “But I like it this way, too.”_

_“If you had to choose?”_

_Yuuri purses his kiss-bitten lips as he thinks. “I don’t know,” he finally says, shrugging. “I suppose I’d choose whatever length makes you happiest. I’m more used to your short hair, though.”_

_The vibrations of Yuuri’s voice travel down Viktor’s spine pleasantly, and he quietly debates whether or not they can skip practice and spend the rest of the day here instead. Yakov would kill him. It would be worth it._

_Viktor smirks and trails his fingers lightly against Yuuri’s hip, tracing the sharp jut of bone beneath skin with aching tenderness. “Hmm. You’re so easy to please.”_

_Yuuri chuckles lowly; it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. “Maybe I’m just selfish.”_

_Before he can reply, Yuuri’s nails scrape against his scalp and he_ pulls _on the silky ends of Viktor’s hair with bruising, sinful force. Viktor’s fingers spasm around Yuuri’s hips and he groans as desire pools in the pit of his stomach, hot and aching; he grabs fistfuls of the bedsheets to keep himself anchored._

_Another tug, this one a little harder, and Viktor curses softly in Russian. He’s suddenly quite sure that they will be skipping practice this morning, consequences be damned._

_“See?” Yuuri murmurs. “Selfish.”_

 

The memory shatters into a thousand pastel fragments, the edges jagged and primed to cut. Reluctantly, Viktor relaxes his death-grip on the phone he’s unconsciously grasping in his pocket; he crosses his arms over his chest to keep his fingers from twitching further—not _here_ , not _now_. This isn’t the time, he knows. Later, perhaps, when he is in the privacy of his penthouse, he can indulge his own iniquity through Yuuri’s social media and ruin himself on his own terms. Right now, Yurio needs to be his main focus.

Yurio tightens up and leaps into a breathtaking quad Salchow. He lands it neatly, his blades cutting the ice with ruthless force. _Focus, focus, focus._

Ina Bauer. Spread eagle. His ankle swivels a little too much when he turns out of it. _Sloppy, need to fix that._

Triple axel. _Stiff, too stiff. He must still be jet-lagged._

Paying attention is an uphill battle the entire way. With every Mohawk twist, every Choctaw, the phone in Viktor’s pocket weighs more, burns a little hotter through the fabric to warm his thigh. He clasps his hands behind his back with crushing force in an attempt to keep his fingers from straying too far.

Across the rink, Yurio goes into a complex step sequence that looks a little shaky toward the end, his knees turning in wrong directions like they don’t know what to do with themselves. Viktor frowns. Yurio usually never skates this poorly at the beginning of a practice.

When the music finally ends, the note whisper-soft, Yurio only manages to hold his final pose for a brief moment before he collapses to his knees, gasping for breath.

Viktor skates over, clapping quietly. Yurio looks up at the noise, his cheeks stained red with exertion. “Wh—“ he wheezes “Why are you clapping? That was awful.”

“Not all of it,” Viktor says lightly. He taps his lower lip in thought. “I think we’ll focus on your step sequences for the rest of the week. That last one before your final Salchow was especially mediocre.”

He gawks, eyebrows knitting together in fury. “I did it exactly like you showed me!”

Viktor waves him off. “Yes, but there was nothing behind it. There was no feeling, no _passion_. And some of your transitions need more…” he trails, trying to find the word. “ _Pizazz.”_

Yurio gives him the flattest, most unimpressed look he can muster. “’Pizazz,’” he repeats slowly, chewing on each syllable. He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “What the _fuck_ , Viktor. What does that even mean?"

Viktor skates a wide circle around his student and hums under his breath. He gesticulates gracefully, emulating the step sequence on a smaller scale in front of Yurio. “Your heart wasn’t in the performance toward the end. Your step sequences became sloppy, and you know just as well as I do that step sequences are Sutemi’s strong suit. He’ll crush you if you’re not careful.”

Yurio’s gaze sharpens and he scowls. “He’s never even _touched_ my scores.”

“He beats you in performance every time. Don’t get cocky.”

Yurio makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and pushes himself back up to his full height. He tosses his braid over his shoulder. “Like you could do any better.”

Viktor hums. “Let’s find out, shall we? Take it from the top.”

They get to work. Viktor has never been as good at step sequences as Yuuri, but he learned a thing or two from his ex-fiancé over the years. They work on Yurio’s presentation and his foot positioning whenever he goes into his outer spread eagle and back into his twizzles; Viktor shadows his student, barking out corrections as they repeat the step sequence over and over and _over_ again until Yurio wants to scream and Viktor wants to tear his hair out.

By the end of practice, Yurio is gritting his teeth and Viktor is fighting a headache. As the hours had passed, the rink began to fill up with skaters desperate to perfect their own Olympic routines. Currently, a small class of junior skaters are working with the jump harness at the opposite end of the rink and Georgi is coaching one of his junior students on combination spins.

At the edge of the rink closest to them, Otabek and Mila are leaned up against the bracket with their skates on, ready for their practice slot to open up. Mila speaks animatedly with her hands while Otabek listens to her in solemn silence, nodding every once in a while, though he doesn’t look like he’s really paying attention. Every few sentences, he glances over toward Yurio with mild curiosity reflected in his dark eyes.

Not for the first time, Viktor hums appreciatively at Otabek’s choice of outfit; the red and white of his Team Russia jacket suits him better than the gaudy turquoise of his home country, and Viktor is sure that Yurio would agree wholeheartedly (if he ever talked about his relationship with the Kazakh skater in the first place). It had been a gamble to get Otabek switched to Team Russia three years ago, but Viktor is glad he made the change, for Yurio’s sake if nothing else.

Viktor catches Yurio glancing toward Otabek, a small smile perched on one corner of his mouth. _Ah,_ Viktor sighs internally. _Young love._

He remembers what it was like to have someone waiting for him at the sidelines. Making the executive decision to end practice a few minutes early, he waves Yurio toward the edge of the rink. “Go on. If you’re going to flirt with him, you’d better do it now before Mila sinks her claws into him.”

At this, Yurio’s ears turn pink. He scowls. “Shut up.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Well, if you want to keep _practicing_ —“

“I said shut up!” Yurio snaps, but he takes Viktor up on his offer and skates away.

He slides in next to his boyfriend without a word of greeting or even a peck on the cheek; instead, they bump shoulders gently as Yurio comes to a stop, and Otabek takes the time to give him a small half-smile—it’s the most emotion he ever shows when they’re out in public together. They’ve never been the type for excessive PDA. For all of Yurio’s Instagram posts about anything and everything, their relationship seems to be the one thing he prefers to keep private.

Viktor trails behind his student with a small smile on his face and grabs his skate guards from the sill before stepping gingerly off the ice. He edges past Mila to sit on the nearest bench and slowly begins discarding his skates.

“What, not going to say hello?” Mila asks, mock indignation staining her tone. Her fiery hair is pinned back from her face in a severe ballerina bun that only serves to sharpen her angular features further.

Viktor glances up at her through the fringe of silver hair that has fallen in front of his eyes. “Hello, Mila,” he intones.

All at once, the sour expression on her face disappears, replaced quickly by a deceptively sweet smile. “Hello to you too, Viktor. Planning on staying to watch our routine?” She asks, but Viktor shakes his head and she deflates. “What? Why not?”

“It’s Yakov’s job to watch you, not mine,” he reminds her.

“Yakov went home with a headache because of you two morons,” she says flatly, looking between Viktor and Yurio. “The least you could do is stick around and give me and Beka a few critiques on our program before you leave.”

“I have things to do,” he lies, keeping his eyes glued to the laces of his skates.

She huffs, bracing her hands against her hips. “Oh, come _on_ ,” she pleads. “Stay, Vitya. Just for a little bit. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“ _Oi_ , hag,” Yurio barks, scowling. He takes a long drink from his water bottle and leans against Otabek’s shoulder. “I’m staying to watch. I’ll tell you when you fuck something up."

“You’re biased,” she points out, and Otabek nods in begrudging agreement.

Yurio balks at both of them for a few moment as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “What, you think I can’t be impartial? I know good skating when I see it.”

“ _Singles_ skating, sure,” Viktor interjects with a shrug. He sets his skates to the side and slips his shoes on his feet, wiggling his sore toes in relief. “Pair skating is different, Yurio. You wouldn’t know what to look for.”

Mila turns on him, eyes glinting deviously. “Ah, but _you_ do. Don’t lie, Vitya. You’re the only one here who’s done it before.”

 _With Yuuri._ She doesn’t say it because she doesn’t have to. Still, it stings a little. “I did it for an exhibition, not a competition. It’s totally different.”

She shrugs. “Whatever. It’s close enough for me.”

Taking a deep breath, Viktor holds up his hands and shakes his head. “Mila, I don’t have the rule book memorized like Yakov does; if you do anything illegal, I probably won’t know it. You shouldn’t trust my judgment when it comes to this stuff.”

Mila sighs and bends over to take her skate guards off, setting them to the side before stepping soundlessly onto the ice and wielding back to face him. “I’m not asking you to calculate points. I just want you to tell us if anything looks weird. It’s not _that_ hard.”

Viktor hesitates. He’s stayed behind a few times in the past to watch Mila and Otabek run through their pair skating routines during previous seasons, but this is for the _Olympics._ They need higher standards than he can give them.

Besides, Viktor just really, _really_ wants to go home. He’s still jet-lagged from the GPF and his knee is twinging with pain again, reminding him that, _oh_ , _yeah_ , he’s not nearly as young as he used to be, and doing a quad Salchow with no warmup had not been one of his better ideas. Viktor wants nothing more than to go home, take a shower, order some takeout, and fall asleep in front of a movie with poorly-translated subtitles and a romantic subplot that’s easy to hate.

He also wants to stalk Sutemi’s Instagram for a few hours.

“Viktor,” Otabek says quietly, startling him out of his deliberation. Otabek’s voice is low and difficult to hear over the echoing din of white noise that emanates throughout the rink, but it rolls between them like velvet, rich and soft. He holds his gaze unflinchingly. “I would prefer if you stayed to watch us at least once, “ he says. “For safety reasons.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Well, shit.

Otabek has a point—an infuriating, inconvenient point, but a point nonetheless. Whether he likes it or not, Viktor is a senior member of the rink’s staff, and pair skating is dangerous on a _good_ day. If something were to go wrong in their routine, he’d be one of the only people in the building able to handle the situation appropriately.

Mila must see the resignation in his eyes because she lets out a breathy squeal of delight and executes a tight spin where she stands on the ice, pumping her fist in the air. She latches onto Otabek’s arm and tugs him along with her out to the center of the ice.

“Thank you, Vitya!” Mila calls out, beaming. “You won’t regret it!”

Before they take up their positions, Otabek lets out a small sigh and tosses his jacket rinkside for Yurio to pick up; it only takes him a moment to slip his arms into the overly-large sleeves and bury his face in the collar, elbows braced against the bracket to watch alongside Viktor.

“ _Davai_ , Beka!” Yurio calls out. He receives a small thumbs up in response before the two skaters take up their positions out on the ice, Mila standing behind Otabek with the tips of her fingers barely touching his lower back.

Viktor starts up the music for them and settles in to watch, his eyes darting back and forth between the clock and the two skaters. _Ten minutes,_ he thinks. _Ten minutes and then I’ll leave._

Their song is a soft cello piece with very few instruments and a bittersweet melody that lingers on haunting, melancholy chords every few measures. Mila orbits Otabek in a wide circle, their fingers brushing, intertwining, and releasing each other as she passes in front of him. The second time she glides around him, their fingers tighten around each other’s and she _pulls,_ forcing Otabek to move with her across the ice alongside her.

It is memorizing to watch them twist and weave across the ice together, hands wandering and feet entangling in a beautiful, frustrating dance. Otabek’s hands ghost over Mila’s waist and slide over her shoulders to grab her hands as they round the far side of the rink, dipping her low in a half-spiral. When he pulls her back up, she turns to face him and cups his cheek gently, staring deeply into his eyes as if he’s the only person in the world who matters.

Yurio lets out a low hum of appreciation as they glide past. “It’s better than last time,” he murmurs offhandedly. “They’ve been working on their performance since we left for the GPF.”

“What’s their story behind the routine?” Viktor asks, not tearing his eyes away from them for a second.

“It’s about two estranged lovers or some sappy shit like that,” Yurio explains. He takes a long drag on his water bottle and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of Otabek’s jacket, continuing, “Beka explained it to me a while ago, so I don’t remember a lot of the details, but it’s basically a dance where both of them are rehashing what ruined their relationship in the first place.” He pauses, frowning. “I think. I dunno, I could be wrong.”

“No, that sounds right,” Viktor says quietly, watching as Otabek grabs Mila’s slender hips and tosses her into a tight mid-air triple twist; he catches her and sets her back down on the ice with a flourish. “It’s… incredible.”

“ _They’re_ incredible,” Yurio corrects, and Viktor can’t help but agree.

Just as soon as both of Mila’s blades touch the ice, she once again skates out of Otabek’s reach, their arms outstretched but not quite touching. They skate parallel to one another and mirror a short step sequence that leads into a side-by-side triple Salchow that is only slightly out of sync but beautiful nonetheless.  

There is a ruthless give-and-take to their routine. Like the tide warring with the shore, they rise and recede in tandem, never meeting the other and yet _working_ together like they’re meant to. They chase, they run, they fight _—_ and in the end, they return to each other for a fleeting moment that leaves Viktor unsatisfied and yearning for so much _more_.

Finally _,_ Otabek manages to grasp Mila’s hand. He pulls her close with bruising force and clutches her body like it’s the last time he’ll ever hold her; his eyes drift shut in pained satisfaction as they melt into an intimate embrace. Viktor holds his breath as they glide across the ice, frozen together in time for a brief moment that cannot last. Finally, Otabek lowers her into a steep death spiral that ends almost as quickly as it begins.

And then, with a tortured grimace, he pulls Mila back to his chest and clutches her hips like it’s the last chance he’ll ever have to touch her, twisting across the ice in tandem and building up speed. At the last second, Otabek pushes Mila away and swings her around for a lofty quad toss that she manages to land flawlessly, her face turned away from her estranged lover. Yurio whistles under his breath, impressed.

They come together one last time in the center of the ice and finish back-to-back; Otabek’s eyes are turned toward the ceiling and his fists are clenched in frustration, but Mila’s eyes are downcast, her face buried in her hands and shoulders hunched as the music sustains its final, haunting note.

Viktor realizes he is clapping. Huh.

Mila and Otabek deflate at the light sound of applause, dropping their poses with a long, drawn-out exhale and shedding their personas as easily as they would a second skin. They are breathing heavily and sweating, but Mila is grinning from ear to ear. Even Otabek looks pleased—as pleased as he is capable of looking, at least. They skate back over to Viktor and Yurio together, feet out of sync for the first time since they started their routine.

“How was that?” Mila asks breathlessly, reaching over the sill for her water bottle.

“It wasn’t bad,” Yurio replies, his tone nonchalant. He hands his own water bottle to Otabek when he approaches, and he takes it with a grateful murmur in Kazakh. Yurio continues, “You weren’t complete shit like last time I sat in on your practice.”

“Only partial shit?” she asks, and at Yurio’s nod, she nods, biting the inside of her cheek in thought. “All right, I can live with that. Any other criticisms? My landing on that third lift felt a little wobbly.”

“It was,” Viktor says, “but everything else was fine.”

Her face twists. “We don’t want ‘ _fine_ ,’ Vitya. Fine doesn’t win Olympic gold.”

“It was spectacular,” he amends, smiling warmly. “You both did a wonderful job with your performance. Technically speaking, it was also impressive. Those quads will put you on the podium for sure.”

“Beka was better than you,” Yurio interjects.

Mila only rolls her eyes toward the ceiling in exasperation, muttering something indecipherable under her breath. She jabs a finger in his face. “See, this is why I wanted Vitya to stay instead of you. I _said_ you were biased.”

Yurio shrugs. “No, Beka was just way better than you. Fucking _fact_.”

“Asshole.”

“Hag.”

“Charming,” Otabek drawls, glancing between his boyfriend and his skating partner. Yurio sticks his tongue out at Mila and she waves him off, but Viktor can see the smile that threatens to curve her lips against her will.

It’s an odd sort of displacement that Viktor feels as he watches his friends interact; like he is a bystander for the entire exchange—not technically participating, but not absent, either. He just… _is_. It’s an odd feeling. Familiar, maybe, but still odd. With a quick glance at the clock, Viktor dips down to grab his skates off the floor, tucking them under his arm. If he hurries, he can make it back to his apartment before rush hour. 

They don’t notice when he leaves. Viktor doesn’t really know how to feel about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave a comment if you’d like. I reply to every one of them and they keep me going.


	5. think you're escaping and run into yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love you guys. Hope this chapter makes you as happy as your comments have made me.

* * *

 

_February 15, 2018 — PyeongChang, South Korea_

_Yuuri doesn’t miss the way Viktor’s shoulders stiffen the instant his eyes fall on the scrap of gold on the bedside table. He also doesn’t miss the way Viktor’s hands tremble as he reaches for it, fingers hovering above the ring but not quite touching, like pressing the pad of his fingertip against the cold metal will somehow make this more_ real _. He retracts his hand slowly, carefully._

 _“You’re leaving,” is all Viktor says, and it hurts_ , _oh, it_ hurts _to hear his voice sound like that. Strained, quiet, empty—it’s everything his voice should never, ever be._

_He struggles to answer._

_“I’m going home, Vitya.”_

_Viktor turns his head to the side, not quite looking over his shoulder and not quite looking anywhere at all. His profile is cut alabaster against the stygian backdrop of the night sky; the village is illuminated inappropriately with the pulsing, exultant lights of victory, cruelly reminding Yuuri that they should be celebrating with their countries right now, not carving out each other’s hearts so carelessly._

_“Why?”_

_Not for the first time, words seem to fail Yuuri. They float just out of reach, taunting him, laughing cruelly as he struggles to structure sentences._

_“I need— time,” he finally says, forcing the words past his teeth. “To be by myself. To breathe.”_

_A pause._

_A minute._

_An eon._

_“I wasn’t aware you were suffocating,” Viktor finally says, voice thinner than rice paper._

_(There are so many ways to ruin a person.)_

* * *

 

The next few weeks are a blur, and Yuuri does his best not to look at the calendar as he goes through the motions.

His days become a pattern, albeit a familiar one: in the mornings, Yuuri drills Sutemi at the Ice Castle until they’re both winded, sore, and blistered to the point of bleeding and cursing in every language they know; evenings are spent in Minako’s studio more often than not, fingers gripping the barre and toes pointed as she barks corrections at her nephew. At night, they sleep—

Well, _Sutemi_ sleeps. Yuuri’s not half as lucky.

Instead of resting like he should, he lies awake at night, staring at the pale ceiling of his bedroom as thoughts rush through his head in a million different directions, warring with each other for dominance. Fear, cold and insidious, creeps beneath his skin and permeates every thought, every emotion until he’s trembling and gasping for air and _he_ _can’t do this, oh god—_

What if Sutemi loses? He’ll be laughed out of Beijing and it will be _Yuuri’s fault._ Once they get the scent of blood, the media will—

What if Yuuri gives Sutemi bad advice and it ruins his performance? Will Sutemi be able to handle the pressure on his—

What if Viktor sees Yuuri?

_what if what if Viktor what if what if Sutemi what if what if what if_

 

Sometimes Yuuri’s lucky to get a few hours of sleep.

Sometimes he doesn’t sleep at all.

 

* * *

 

_January 10, 2022_

Yuuri has never liked cameras. Perhaps it’s leftover trauma from rooming with Phichit and his social media trigger-finger, or maybe it’s because Yuuri’s spent most of his career in the spotlight for all the wrong reasons. He hates the blinding flash, the soft flutter of adjusted apertures, and _look here, Katsuki-san, will you comment?_ He’d sooner walk on glass than stare down a lens ever again.

That’s the nice thing about coaching, though: Yuuri’s rarely the one in front of the camera, and he is _more_ than okay with that.

The Olympic film crew shows up on a Monday to film Sutemi’s biopic. There are about thirty people total: a middle-aged director with frizzy hair and a blinking Bluetooth headset, a couple key grips, a few cameramen, some personal stylists, and a gaggle of severely underpaid assistants who seem to be doing everyone else’s jobs, as far as Yuuri can tell. They leave miles of cords and cables in their wake, much to Yuuko’s chagrin, and spend three hours rigging up elaborate equipment throughout the rink in hopes of achieving “that perfect natural light effect, know what I mean?”

Yuuri does not, in fact, know what they mean, nor does he care. He just wants them to get out of the way so Sutemi can practice for _five goddamned minutes._

He’s really not asking for much.

Once they’re set up, Yuuri and Sutemi are forcibly dragged into the locker rooms to have their hair and makeup done for the camera. Yuuri isn’t sure why he needs his makeup done at all, considering _he’s_ not the Olympic athlete here, but the makeup artist is _terrifying_ and brandishing an eyelash curler like a weapon, so he keeps his mouth shut and wordlessly submits to her ministrations.

Once they’re both pampered and approved for filming, the stylists shove them into brand-name outfits that match Sutemi’s sponsorships and push them onto the ice with zero explanation.

Sutemi’s eyes are wide as he looks around the rink, taking in the complicated lighting equipment and hovering camera drones that flit through the air around them. His hair is stiff with product and the makeup on his face hides his freckles, giving him a youthful appearance that Yuuri doesn’t really like.

“Am I supposed to— I don’t know, skate?” he asks, eyeing a nearby drone with suspicion.

“I think so?” Yuuri murmurs, glancing at the director of the biopic, who has yet to speak a single word to either of them this entire time. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

“I didn’t even know they were coming today,” Sutemi admits quietly. “I thought they were scheduled for next week.”

Yuuri huffs. “That’s what they told me. They _lied_.”

Sutemi lifts his hand to run his fingers through his hair but stops short at the last second; the hair stylist is shooting him a frigid look that says _don’t even think about it._ He reluctantly lowers his hand.

“You know,” he says mischievously, “I could start dancing. Test them a little bit, see what happens.”

Yuuri nods slowly, biting the inside of his cheek. “Not your best idea, I’ll admit, but they’re not really giving us anything else to go by. It’s an option.”

“Desperate times, sensei,” he says sagely. Suddenly, he lets out a frustrated noise. Yuuri looks up to see him shifting uncomfortably, pulling on the waistband of his leggings with a scowl on his face. “Oh, for the love of— how do they expect me to skate in these? They’re, like, two sizes too small,” he complains. “My balls are _suffocating.”_

A scoff, and Yuuri rolls his eyes, fighting a smile. He waves his student off toward the opposite end of the rink. “Quit whining and start your warmups. Watch out for the drones when you jump, all right?”

Sutemi makes a face but pushes backwards to start his laps, feet steady and assured as they cross and weave around each other; he moves fluidly despite the aforementioned issue with his trousers. Yuuri watches with crossed arms as Sutemi glides through wide, languid bracket turns and soft figure-eights. The drones follow him like a second shadow.

It isn’t long before the director of the biopic clumsily skates out onto the ice to speak to Yuuri one-on-one. He has a tablet in his hands and his glasses reflect the turbulent barrage of information on the screen, all bright colors and words, words, words. Yuuri doesn’t understand any of it, the images scrolling past far too quickly for any normal human to understand.

The director doesn’t look up at Yuuri, even for a second; blindly, he sticks his hand out in greeting. “The name’s Kinji. Your cooperation is appreciated,” he drones, sounding, for all intents and purposes, like he’s reading from a poorly-written script.

“It’s no problem. We're, uh, glad you could fit us in so soon.”

Kinji nods rapidly, eyes still glued to his tablet. “Right, right, yeah, no problem. All part of the job,” he monotones. “Now, do you have any questions before we get going, or can I—“

“How long is this going to take?” Yuuri asks bluntly. “Sutemi needs to practice.”

Kinji blinks as if he hadn’t expected the question. “Hard to say. Six, seven hours, maybe? We really don’t want to stay here any longer than we have to.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “Right. Okay.”

The director taps manically against the screen, mouth slanted in a frown. “Mhm. Is that all?”

Yuuri wracks his brain, feeling like he’s forgetting something very important. He can’t put his finger on what it is, though. “I think so?”

Kinji lets out a sigh and finally looks up at Yuuri, his gaze flat with boredom—as if talking to Yuuri is about as interesting as listening to a recitation of the phonebook, which it very well might be. “All right, then. We’ll film for as long as we need to and then we’ll do the interviews. Should be out of here by dinnertime.”

“Uh, great. Is there anything you need from me specifically?”

He shrugs noncommittally, glancing back to his tablet. “Stand there and look inspiring, I guess. Viewers love that sappy shit; they drink it up like soju. Start thinking about some answers.”

Yuuri considers informing the man that he can hardly come up with answers to questions he doesn’t know, but he keeps his tongue in check, nodding mutely instead. Kinji hums, accepting his answer, and reaches up to press a button on his glowing Bluetooth earpiece; he begins speaking in rapid-fire Mandarin and skates away, feet sliding across the ice with all the grace of a fumbling newborn deer.

 _Well._ Yuuri glances sidelong at Sutemi as he leaps up for a triple axel. _This is going to be a long day._

 

* * *

 

Five hours later, Yuuri is watching his student from the sidelines.

“He’s stiff,” Minako mutters, pressing her fingers hard against her mouth as she watches Sutemi tuck up for a quad flip at the other end of the rink. She shakes her head, displeased with what she sees. “Nerves or exhaustion?”

The sill of the bracket is cold against Yuuri’s elbows as he sighs, watching the camera drone with thinly-veiled interest as it follows Sutemi across the ice. “I think it’s more exhaustion than anything else, but ‘Temi will argue it’s his trousers.”

Minako hums, tilting her head to the side. “They _are_ rather tight. How long has he been going?”

“Since eight.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

Minako sighs in frustration, a few silver strands of hair fall from her messy bun to frame her delicate, unlined features. At forty-two, she has somehow managed to retain an enviable amount of agelessness in her features, save for her hair; she had refused to rid herself of the streaks of silver that showed up shortly after her thirty-sixth birthday, instead choosing to embrace them with open arms.

They watch in companionable silence for several minutes as Sutemi performs a step sequence from one of his older routines—last year’s Nationals, Yuuri thinks. Sutemi’s dark brows are furrowed in concentration and there is a fine sheen of sweat on his brow that threatens to ruin his meticulously-applied makeup, but he doesn’t even blink before he leads into a combination spin that the film drones hungrily record from every possible angle.

“I’m guessing you boys won’t be home for dinner?” she asks.

Yuuri considers correcting her—he’s a man, not a _boy_ —but ultimately decides it’s not worth the trouble; to Minako, Yuuri’s still just a teenager with a dream about skating on the ice with Viktor Nikiforov, and nothing he can say would make her change her mind about that.

“We’ll try our best, but no promises,” Yuuri tells her, tapping his fingers against the sill in a sharp, staccato rhythm. “I’ll call you once I know more. With luck, the interview won’t take too long.”

Her face sours at the word _interview_. “You’re sure you can’t sit in on his interview with him? I think Sutemi would do better if you were there.”

Yuuri sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. “I told you, they want to do this separately. There’s nothing I can do about it, even though I want to.”

“But if they ask about Akane—“

“There’s _nothing_ I can do, Minako-sensei,” Yuuri says quietly. He sighs and drops his head low. “I’m sorry. Sutemi is going to have to handle this on his own.”

Questions about Sutemi’s mother are inevitable things; they’re potholes in a larger, more complex road that the city refuses to fix, citing _insufficient_ _funding_ and _inconvenience_ on the same breath. When Sutemi won Nationals last year, it felt like every question revolved around Akane Okukawa and her untimely death. The media didn’t care about Sutemi’s medals, his hard work, his unyielding perseverance, but rather his _mother—_ the one thing that every other normal person except Sutemi seems to have. Like losing her made him _special._

Sutemi is calm in the face of scrutiny, unalterably charming when pushed to the limitations of his manners, and polite in his refusals. But when they ask about his mother—

It’s like he’s fifteen all over again.

Minako curses under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“It’s fine,” he says, because it _is_. This is a familiar routine, one they’ve perfected over the years. “I’m upset about it, too. But he _needs_ this biopic, Minako. No one will cheer for him without it.”

“I know, I know,” she says, waving dismissively. A sigh. “I just… can’t help but worry.”

Yuuri smiles. “It’s your job to worry about him.”

She snorts bitterly and tucks a few silver strands of hair behind the translucent shell of her ear. “It’s _our_ job to worry about him.”

Except that it isn’t. It’s his father’s responsibility, Yuuri thinks, and the thought sits bitterly on the back of his tongue. Right now, Sutemi’s father is holed up in an office somewhere on Wall Street with more money than God and no time to spare for his only son, save for a monthly phone call about nothing at all.

Yuuri knows Minako is thinking the same thing; they don’t say it out loud, though. They never do. Instead, they share a small, rueful smile and turn back to watch Sutemi skate.

He’s worn out, breathing hard and sweating buckets, Yuuri notices. His ankles are swiveling as he does a basic spread eagle and sloppy bracket turn. He starts skating backward to prepare for a jump. Yuuri glances over to Kinji to see if he can pull Sutemi off the ice for the evening—he needs his rest, needs to meet his calories for the day—when it happens.

Sutemi _falls._

There is no preamble. No call to action, no moment of _oh, god_ or _not this, not_ now. Yuuri and Minako can only watch it happen, both of them frozen in place as Sutemi lands incorrectly on his left foot after a single axel and crumples to the ice in a heap of fatigued limbs.

A breath sucked between teeth, serrated like the blade of a knife and twice as jagged. The soft smack of palms hitting the ice.

Yuuri barely has time to rip off his skate guards before he vaults over the bracket to race toward his student. Sutemi is on his back in the center of the rink, hands clutching at his ankle; teeth gritted, lips thin and white, he doesn’t say a word as Yuuri drops down to his knees next to him.

There are noises behind Yuuri. Voices. He doesn’t care. “Are you—“

“No,” Sutemi grits, his skin pale. “Stupid _pants—“_

“Tell me where it hurts,” he says, knowing full well where it hurts. “Talk to me, Sutemi.”

Sutemi lets out a thin breath and hisses when Yuuri’s nimble fingers go for the laces of his left skate. “God, _fuck_ — right there, yeah, right there. Something’s pulled. Sprained. I don’t know. _Shit._ ”

“Not broken?”

“Don’t think so.”

Yuuri lets out a relived breath, but only halfway—there’s still a chance something’s wrong beneath the surface. A long list of potential problems cycles through his head: ligament damage, torn muscles, tendonitis, broken bones. He tries to keep a cool head.

Gingerly, Yuuri slips Sutemi’s skate off his foot and sets it aside. Sure enough, his ankle is starting to swell. The young skater pushes himself up onto his elbows to get a better look and pales at the sight.

“No,” he mutters. “No, no, _no._ ”

“Hey,” Yuuri snaps, catching his dazed attention. “Stop that. You’re fine. You’re going to be _fine,_ do you understand me? _”_

A scrape and a shuffle behind him. Minako slides up next to them with wide, grey eyes and no skates on her feet. “Sutemi—“

“Call Dr. Ingram,” Yuuri barks at her, not taking his eyes off Sutemi’s ankle. A small purple shadow is beginning to blossom around his Achilles tendon. “And please, _please_ tell me you drove here.”

She nods mutely, eyes glued to Sutemi’s rapidly-swelling ankle with horror. “I—yeah. Yes. I’ll pull the car up,” she stammers and clumsily slides away toward the exit of the rink.

Sutemi collapses back onto the ice and squeezes his eyes shut. He covers his face with his hands in shame. “I’m sorry, sensei. I shouldn’t have—“

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Yuuri says gently, thanking every deity he knows that his voice sounds reassuring. “You’re going to be okay. This is minor. We have time, all right?” Yuuri reaches for the skate on his other foot and takes it off, tossing it to one side. The camera crew is buzzing behind him, but he doesn’t hear them. He only hears the rush of blood in his ears and the labored breathing of his student—nothing else matters.

“Come on,” he says, voice lighter than he feels. “Let’s get you to Dr. Ingram before it gets worse. Can you stand?”

 

* * *

 

_what if what if Sutemi what if Sutemi what if what if what if_

* * *

 

Minako drives them across town and breaks about fifteen traffic laws. Yuuri doesn’t wear his seatbelt.

The trip is silent, the air charged and primed to explode at the slightest oscillation. His fingers are numb, feet bare except for threadbare wool socks; he hadn’t bothered to find his shoes after discarding his own skates at the rink. Sutemi is stretched out across the backseat with a scowl etched into his sheet-white face.

Dr. Ingram’s clinic isn’t far, but it _feels_ farther today. They arrive five minutes ( _five hours, five days?_ ) later, and the relief that floods Yuuri’s veins upon seeing Sutemi’s sports physician standing outside the front door—

Well, he can’t really describe it.

Harper Ingram is wearing grey sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt with the UCLA logo on the front, blonde hair tied up in a limp ponytail like she’d just rolled out of bed and couldn’t be bothered to do anything with it. Yuuri sees her American upbringing in her slouched shoulders, her sun-kissed Californian skin, and her too-straight too-white teeth.

Despite the awful, _awful_ situation, he smiles.

She looks… nice.

Harper waves when she sees them pull up out front and jogs over, already yanking open the back door before they’ve stopped in order to get at Sutemi.

“Tell me what happened,” she orders, reaching for Sutemi’s arm. Her blue eyes are narrowed in grim determination. “Tell me _everything.”_

Yuuri spills out of the passenger’s seat and helps guide his student out of the backseat. They each slip beneath an arm and support his weight as best they can; they’re mindful of every hiss, every gasp he makes as they jostle him up the front walkway toward the door.

“Fell out of a single axel,” Sutemi stammers, gritting his teeth in pain. Minako slips in front of them to hold open the door of the quaint clinic. The receptionist thumbs toward a hallway in the back, and they head that way.

Harper shoots an incredulous look at Yuuri, and he returns with an expression that says _I’ll tell you later_.  She bites her lip. “Oh. Uh, that’s… not like you, Sutemi.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” he grumbles bitterly.

The hallway finally widens into a large, square room with exercise equipment in every available space. Complex-looking medical machines line the far wall next to a low, comfortable observation bench where they end up putting Sutemi, despite his protestations that he can sit down on his own, dammit.

Harper is buzzing around the room before Yuuri can get a word out. He watches as she flits to and fro, rifling through numerous drawers and cabinets for braces, splints, and ice packs. She flips her hair over her shoulder as she sneaks a glance at the clock on the wall.

“You usually don’t practice this late,” she remarks, trying to fill the weighty silence. She rummages through a drawer and pulls out a box of purple latex gloves before turning around, arms full.

Yuuri and Minako take a seat on a nearby observation table, sinking down into the hard cushion as best they can. Sutemi snorts, rubbing a hand over his face.

“No rest for the wicked, doc,” he says, glaring up at the ceiling like it has personally wronged him. His tone is tinged with bitterness.

Harper frowns and sets down her payload on a rolling cart. “Never pegged you for the wicked type, kiddo.” She kicks a short stool over to the foot of Sutemi’s table and drags the cart close by, reaching for the latex gloves. “You must’ve been pretty distracted to mess up a single like that.”

“Exhausted is more like it,” Minako fills in, tugging nervously on the strap of her purse. “He shouldn’t have skated for so long.”

Harper’s icy gaze lifts to Yuuri. He holds his hands up. “It wasn’t me! The Olympic committee sent a film crew for his biopic.”

The doctor’s eyebrows lift, impressed. “I see. Well, let me take a look and see what we can do.”

She bends over Sutemi’s proffered foot and purses her lips as she turns it from side to side with feather-light fingers. Sutemi is biting his lip and blinking rapidly at the ceiling to keep from crying out, fingers clutching the sides of the cushioned bench.

Harper hums, and Sutemi trades a worried glance with Yuuri. “Well?” he asks, voice shaking ever so slightly. “Is it… broken?”

She looks up with a puzzled frown. “What? No, of course not.”

All at once, the three of them let out the breath they didn’t know they’d been holding. Minako mutters under her breath about finding religion and a stiff drink, and Sutemi grins smiles shakily at his coach; his cheeks gradually begin to fill with color. And Yuuri—

Yuuri is so happy he can’t even _stand it._

Harper continues lightly, “I mean, you weren’t crying when you showed up, so that was a pretty good indicator that it wasn’t broken. I’ll refer you to Hasetsu Medical for an x-ray all the same, just to be certain, but I think it’s just a small sprain. Nothing some ice, elevation, and a few days of Netflix won’t fix.”

“He’ll be all right for the Olympics?” Yuuri demands, just to be sure.

“Mhm,” she replies, reaching for a nearby ice pack. She slaps it against the edge of the table to activate it and presses the squishy packet against Sutemi’s swollen ankle. She looks up at him through her lashes with a smirk. “Don’t worry, coach. Your boy’s gonna be fine in no time.”

Yuuri tips back onto the bench and laughs breathily, tugging on the ends of his hair and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. _It’s not ruined everything is fine we’re going to be fine Sutemi will be able to skate—_

“Does this mean I can sleep in the next couple days?” Sutemi asks sweetly, and Yuuri can’t help but laugh along with Minako and Dr. Ingram.

As the laughter dies in his throat, however, exhaustion settles into Yuuri’s bones with crushing weight.

The observation benches in Harper physical therapy clinic are not, by any stretch of the imagination, comfortable. In fact, they’re _so_ uncomfortable that Yuuri usually avoids sitting on them altogether whenever he brings Sutemi here for his checkups. Now, though, Yuuri’s lack of sleep taps on his shoulder to remind him it’s there, lurking in the shadows and waiting, always waiting.

Harper tends to Sutemi with soft murmurs. The shuffle of pillows being stacked beneath his foot, the crinkle of an ice pack, the soft sigh when his pain abates. Minako makes small conversation and berates her nephew for anything and everything, but Yuuri knows the words are just for show. She doesn’t _mean_ them. Yuuri makes eye contact with Harper when she stands up and sheds her latex gloves.

She smiles at him. It’s small and it’s secretive and—

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but he dreams in black and white.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri checks his watch.

Viktor has been working with Yakov for the last three hours and isn’t showing any signs of stopping. His hands are braced against the edge of the rink as he listens to Yakov, chest heaving and sweat glistening at his temples like pale, polished gemstones. Yuuri settles into his seat in the stands; he can wait a little longer.

“Aren’t you going to go get him?” Yurio asks. His voice is flat, unimpressed.

Yuuri glances sidelong at the boy. He’s typing something in Cyrillic on his phone—a message to Otabek, probably, and the thought almost brings a smile to his face.

Almost.

But Yuuri just shakes his head, saying, “I don’t want to bother him. He’s doing well today.”

Yurio scoffs, glancing up at him through the curtain of his hair. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but your practice slot started half an hour ago. Telling him to do his job doesn’t count as ‘bothering’ him.”

Yuuri shrugs lightly. “I’m okay with watching.”

Yurio mutters something under his breath in Russian that Yuuri doesn’t quite catch. He locks his phone with crushing force and glares at him. “You’re so fucking pathetic, Katsudon.”

The sharp sound of oxygen cutting off. Yuuri stares.

“I’m sorry?” he asks, voice as brittle as spun glass.

“You,” Yurio says, punctuating the word by jabbing a finger in the other skater’s face, “are pathetic. You never take what you want when you need it, especially when it actually _counts_ for something. Maybe if you’d tried harder, your relationship with Viktor would’ve lasted more than five fucking minutes. Maybe you would’ve actually done something worthwhile in PyeongChang like you were _supposed_ to.”

And like a switch being flipped, Yuuri’s fingers go suddenly numb.

This— isn’t right, he thinks. This isn’t how this conversation happened at all. Yuuri remembers the young skater rolling his eyes and saying a noncommittal _whatever_ , but this—

This is _wrong_.

Yuuri repeats himself, unable to break the loop he’s trapped in. He follows the script of this scene because he knows it and they need to get this back on track before the director yells cut and the credits roll.

“I’m sorry?”

_(He’s sorry a lot.)_

Yurio’s face goes mysteriously blank as he leans in closer, as if he is sharing a secret with Yuuri, a secret made of knives and broken things with jagged edges. When Yurio speaks, his words are familiar, spoken in precisely the same way as they had been all those years ago—but he never said them _here,_ not at the rink. No, Yurio said them over dinner at his grandfather’s with a red apron and a cat on his lap and _piroshkies are the shit, aren’t they, Katsudon?_ He’d invited Yuuri over because Viktor was out of town for—

“Viktor never does anything halfway,” Yurio murmurs, almost looking sorry for him. “It’s your skating career or his, and that’s just all there is to it. The sooner you wake up and smell the fucking roses, the sooner you’ll be free.”

 

* * *

 

_(He’s always sorry.)_

 

* * *

 

Yuuri awakens without a sound, but Harper somehow manages to hear him anyway.

One glance at the windows tells Yuuri that it’s late— _much_ later than when he arrived with Sutemi and Minako. He groans and sits up, wincing slightly at the stiffness in his lower back. A paper-thin sheet crumples in his lap with the movement. Harper must’ve covered him in his sleep.

“Did you have a nice nap?” she asks gently, her voice coming from somewhere across the room. He squints; the room is blurry, and he suddenly realizes he doesn’t have his glasses on.

“How long was I out?” Yuuri asks groggily, rubbing his eyes. Blindly, he feels around for his glasses.

She hums. “Oh, about four hours, give or take a bit. Glasses are on your left,” she tells him, and Yuuri snatches them up and crams them back on his face.

Fuzzy edges become sharp enough to cut, and Yuuri feels his face heat in mortification. The physical therapy room is empty, save for Harper, who is sitting at a cluttered desk on the far side of the room with a mug of tea in her hands. The bluish light from her laptop casts long shadows across her face in the silvery darkness.

She nods toward the examination table next to Yuuri, which is now empty. “Minako took Sutemi home a few hours ago,” she tells him, eyeing his socked feet. “I told them I’d drive you back whenever you woke up.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, cheeks hot with shame. “I shouldn’t have—“

But Harper waves him off. “Don’t worry about it, Yuuri. Just because I’m on retainer with Sutemi doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to worry about your well-being, too. It’s fine.”

With a slow exhale, Harper sets her mug down on a stack of papers and pushes out of her seat. She pads across the room, feet bare beneath her baggy sweatpants and golden hair hanging in loose waves around her shoulders. She plops down next to him unceremoniously.

“You were talking in your sleep, you know,” she says quietly, swinging her legs lazily from the edge of the table.

Yuuri’s heart bottoms out in his stomach. “Did you—?”

“No.” She shakes her head vehemently. “I only heard some mumbling, a few words here and there. None of it made sense. Color me worried, though.”

He blinks at the odd American phrase; it doesn’t translate especially well in Japanese, but he understands it well enough to force out a stiff, “I’m fine.”

For several moments, Harper regards him carefully. Her gaze is searching, scanning, _she looks through me like I’m glass,_ and it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as it should be. Yuuri can’t put his finger on why, though.

Finally, she murmurs, “Sutemi says you’re not sleeping. Is that true?”

Yuuri rubs the back of his neck and winces at the residual stiffness in his muscles. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

She gives him a flat look. “Yuuri, you essentially passed out in my office today with no warning. I don’t think you’re handling it—whatever _it_ is—very well at all.”

“I’m just stressed!” he exclaims, pushing off the bench. He stumbles as the blood rushes to his head too quickly and he curses, waiting for it to pass.

She takes the chance to ask, “Are you stressed about the games? Or is it something else?”

“The games, obviously.” Blindly, he gestures in her general direction. “Aren’t _you_ nervous? The opening ceremony is in _three weeks._ ”

She blinks, and the fine lines around her eyes tighten imperceptibly. She drops her gaze to her lap. “I’m excited, actually,” she admits, toying with the ends of her hair. Her bitten fingernails reflect dully in the moonlight that slants through the windows and the pale yellow lamplight from the hallway. “I’ve never been before. I was doing my residency in the states during PyeongChang, so I couldn’t go. ”

It’s—

It’s not what he expects her to say at _all,_ and Yuuri flounders for the briefest of moments. Words escape his grasp, fleeting and floating out of reach like fireflies in summer. He swallows. “Never, huh?”

She shakes her head. “Not once. Watched the events at home whenever I could, though.”

Yuuri shakes his head and hesitantly returns to his spot on the bench next to Harper, settling in slowly on the hard cushion. “I didn’t realize,” he murmurs softly. He glances sidelong at the outline of her soft profile and tries for a smile. “You’ll enjoy it. Watching the events in person is always more fun than watching them on TV.”

“I think that’s true for all sports,” she says wryly, bumping his shoulder with her own. She bites her lower lip, suddenly looking slightly uncertain. It’s an odd expression on the American doctor’s face—confidence suits her better than uncertainty, which fits her personality like a too-small shoe on the wrong foot.

She speaks.

“I saw you skate, you know. In PyeongChang. I probably told you that a while ago.”

She had not, in fact, ever told him that, and Yuuri silently wishes she’d kept it to herself for a little while longer. The words sluice down his spine and bring with them frigid pinpricks of _please, let’s talk about something else,_ anything _else._ He shifts uncomfortably on the bench.

If Harper notices his discomfort, she doesn’t comment on it. “I thought your short program was… god, it was _incredible_. I didn’t know anything about figure skating back then, but I knew enough to realize how good you were.”

“Not good enough,” he mutters before he can stop himself. He flushes down to the roots of his hair and wishes he could stuff the words back into his mouth.

Harper hums, nodding slowly. “You’re right. But you and I both know that Sutemi _is_ good enough to take home that hardware. You do believe that, don’t you?”

Yuuri scoffs. “Of course I believe it. How could I—“

Abruptly, Harper crosses her legs beneath herself and turns to face him, leaning forward eagerly. Her blue eyes are narrowed decisively.

Her voice is firm, unyielding. “Now, I’m not sure if you know this, but the rest of the world doesn’t really give a shit about who coaches their favorite skater, curler, snowboarder—whatever other winter sports there are, I don’t know. _You_ —“ she says, punctuating the word with a finger she jabs in the center of his chest “—are going to be _invisible_ at these games, Yuuri. Your only job is to make sure that Sutemi wakes up every morning, drinks his protein shakes, and shows up to the rink on time with skates on the correct feet. You are there to support him as a mentor and a friend and that is your _only_ function. Do you understand me?”

Unsolicited memories surface of a parking garage and muffled cheering and j _ust have more faith than I do that I’ll win!_

He can’t breathe.                                                                                          

Harper’s gaze softens and a small smile curls one side of her mouth as she watches the emotions war on his face. She leans back, letting her hand fall back to her lap with a soft sigh.

“And if that isn’t the easiest job in the world, then I don’t know what is,” she finishes quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm. Harper Ingram. Another original character to throw a wrench in things. Thoughts, anybody?


	6. but I must think because it is all I have left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All quotes in this chapter come from The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway.

* * *

 

 

_February 15, 2018 — PyeongChang, South Korea_

 

 _There is a roar in Viktor's ears, and all he can do is_ stare _as his heart slowly freezes over in his chest._

_He stands up from the bed with trembling knees that don’t feel like his own. He turns, and his eyes immediately fall to the full suitcase at Yuuri’s feet, the pasty fingers clenched into shaky fists at his side. Viktor sees the bags under his too brown, too beautiful eyes and he watches Yuuri’s tears reflect quicksilver in the moonlight._

Oh, god, this is really happening, isn’t it?

_Viktor rakes a hand through the snarls in his hair, focusing on the pain in his scalp instead of the little deaths happening over and over again in his chest. “I don’t… I don’t understand. Why?”_

_Yuuri shudders and more tears spill down his face, a deluge of salt that has Viktor twisting the ring around the skin of his finger with benumbed force._

_“You should’ve won tonight,” Yuuri finally whispers, voice splitting open on the final word._

_And Yuuri might be suffocating, but Viktor is drowning._

* * *

 

_(Why did they make birds so delicate and fine as those sea swallows when the ocean can be so cruel?)_

 

* * *

 

_January 11, 2022 — St. Petersburg, Russia_

 

Viktor has never been good at taking a day off.

The rink is empty this morning, save for a few early risers and a handful of grumpy custodians; they putter around the locker rooms with dust mops and vacuum the hallways between the coaching offices, preparing the arena for the junior classes later in the morning. Viktor smiles at them when he passes by on his way to the ice; he doesn’t get a smile in return, but that’s okay. He doesn’t expect one.

As he steps onto the glassy, untouched ice, Viktor allows himself the chance to breathe. He sucks in oxygen greedily and exhales with regretful hesitance, enjoying the way the recycled air of the rink slices into his lungs with frigid indifference. The bending of knees, the soft pressure of golden blades against ice, and Viktor is off with little fanfare.

And as he skates, he thinks.

He feels the clock ticking like he feels the blood pulsing through his veins, steady and impossible to ignore. There are three weeks before the opening ceremony. Twenty-one days. A handful of hours. With every breath, every gentle bracket turn, the Olympics inch a little closer, become a little bit more _real_. Viktor knows he is running out of time—he just isn’t sure what to do about it. Nerves, foreign and unsolicited, dance in his belly at the thought.

_Ina Bauer. Change-foot spin._

It’s silly, he thinks, to be nervous for a competition he isn’t even competing in. Sochi and PyeongChang had been exciting, in their own ways—full of bright lights, cheering fans, the glassy-eyed stare of cameras around every corner, late nights in the villages with athletes who didn’t speak Russian and didn’t _care_ —but Beijing will be different, he knows. Instead of counting calories and soaking in ice baths, he will spend his evenings with other coaches at swanky restaurants, ordering from menus he can’t read and reminiscing about his formative years of skating with people who don’t really care about his answers.

_Counter turn. Cross step._

The team skate events are first in the lineup for the games. Yuuri will be there with his student, seated in Japan’s rinkside box, and Viktor will have to watch him from Russia’s box as he smiles and lives his life like nothing ever happened between them, like Viktor isn’t even _there_.

_Lunge. Rocker turn. Focus._

Viktor carves into the ice with small jumps, spins, and steps until he can no longer track his own reflection beneath his feet. He etches a convoluted design on the surface of the rink and relishes the way his blades catch ever so slightly on the fissures as he passes over them. He skates so he can pretend he’s okay.

(He isn’t. But hell. That’s nothing new.)

He doesn’t know how long he stays out on the ice, but he stops when the sunlight has finally transformed from dawn’s pale ivory to the rich, golden hues of midmorning. The rink is still largely empty for a Thursday; junior students are just starting to trickle in when Viktor feels eyes on his back.

Yurio is watching him from the sidelines with an unreadable expression on his face. His hair is loose around his shoulders this morning and his fists are stuffed in the front pocket of his leopard-print hoodie as he scrutinizes Viktor’s relaxed skating from the exit of the rink, one foot tapping impatiently. He looks—well, Viktor would almost say he looks _worried_ , but he knows that can’t be true. This is Yurio he’s talking about, after all.

When he meets Viktor’s glacial-blue gaze, Yurio scowls. _Ah, that’s more like it._

“I’ve been trying to call you,” Yurio shouts. “Jesus. You’ve been off the grid for hours.”

Frowning, Viktor skids to a stop in front of Yurio. He reaches over the sill for a towel and wipes the sweat off his brow, breathing hard. “You know I don’t like skating with my phone.”

Yurio rips the towel from his hands and uncaringly tosses it aside, ignoring Viktor’s yelp of protest. “At least turn the ringer on or some shit. Save me the trouble of driving over here every time you ignore my calls.”

“I wasn’t—“ but he stops short. Viktor takes a deep breath; he lets it out slowly. “Fine. What are you doing here, Yurio?”

Yurio scoffs, stepping aside to let Viktor pass him on the way to the benches. “Looking for you, obviously.”

“Yeah, I got that part. What do you _need?_ ”

The young skater mutters something under his breath and rummages around the pocket of his hideous jacket for a moment before producing his cell phone. He swipes at the screen and holds it out to Viktor. “Got a news alert this morning that you’ll want to see.”

Viktor frowns and takes the proffered device, peering down at the fine lines of text that fill the screen. It’s a short article from the Лента newspaper—

And the second he reads the headline, Viktor stops breathing.

**_Japanese Olympian out of Commission after Horrific Training Injury_ **

_Japanese figure skater Sutemi Okukawa’s quest for Olympic gold may have been cut short by an ankle injury he sustained in a horrible fall during a training session Wednesday evening._

_Okukawa incorrectly landed a single axel while filming a biographical segment for his impending Olympic debut next month. Sources say Okukawa under-rotated the simple jump due to exhaustion, but others think it may be related to his stress level as the games approach._

_(see video)_

Viktor sags and collapses onto the bench with a soft exhale that doesn’t quite relieve the sudden tightness in his chest. “What a shame,” he murmurs, thumb hovering over the play button for the video clip in the middle of the article. “He would’ve been good competition at the games.”

Yurio huffs in frustration and takes a seat next to Viktor. He grabs Viktor’s skate guards out of his duffel bag and holds them out to his coach, who takes them gratefully, if not a little bit numbly. “No shit. God, I can’t believe he fell on a _single axel._ I mean, come on—I was doing those before I was ten!”

“You were doing a lot of things before you were ten, not all of them good. And the article says Sutemi was exhausted,” Viktor points out. “Even _you_ flub your jumps when you’re tired.”

Yurio shakes his head. “I call bullshit. Apparently he’d only been practicing for an hour or two when it happened.”

That gives Viktor pause. “Oh, really?” he asks, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. He taps his lip in mock curiosity. “You seem to know quite a bit about this already. What, pray tell, were your sources on that particular tidbit of information?”

Yurio blinks, green eyes widening imperceptibly for a brief moment. Then he stuffs his fists back into the pockets of his hoodie and trades the look of surprise for a glower that could make a grown man cry—not Viktor, of course. He’s far too used to these kinds of things.

“Mind your own business,” Yurio mutters, sinking into his jacket as if the fabric can swallow him whole.

Viktor simply raises an inquisitive eyebrow, and Yurio huffs, throwing his hands up in the air. “Look, I had a lot of time to kill this morning. Whatever. Just— just watch the fucking video and you’ll see what I’m talking about, okay?”

“All right, whatever you say,” he replies lightly. Yurio snarls and Viktor fights back a smile before he turns to the phone in his hand, thumb darting in to start the video.

It loads for several seconds, the small white ring _spinning, spinning, spinning_ on an atramentous background—and suddenly the Ice Castle is in front of Viktor’s eyes in brilliant, cruel technicolor, and he has to make a conscious effort not to drop the phone to the ground with a clatter. Every edge is sharp and focused in the steady frame, and the rink is aglow with the warm, artificial light that emanates from the equipment set up around the brackets; the entire arena appears to be dipped in gold, and Sutemi’s shadow is long across the ice as he skates in lazy circles.

Viktor bites his cheek and tastes blood. _So familiar._

At his side, Yurio leans over Viktor’s shoulder to squint at the video, eyebrows drawn close together. “Skip ahead a minute or two. He doesn’t fall until about halfway through the clip.”

But Viktor ignores him and swats blindly at his student. “I’ll watch the whole thing, thank you very much.”

“No, seriously, it’s—“

Viktor smacks Yurio’s hand out of the way when he makes a move to touch the screen. The young skater yelps, retracts his hand lightning-fast, and opens his mouth—to curse even more, no doubt—but Viktor holds up a hand to stop him. “Mind your manners, Yurio. What would your grandfather say?”

He rolls his eyes and points toward the phone. “Just finish the damned thing already—hey, you’re going to miss it!”

Viktor’s head whips back to the video just as Sutemi passes by the camera crew. His face is downturned and shadowed with exhaustion, lines of strain present around his mouth; sweat glistens on his forehead beneath the hot lights.

“Here he goes,” Yurio mumbles. He shakes his head. “I can’t watch.”

Viktor knows he’s going to pop the jump before his skates leave the ice. His takeoff is messy, unsteady, _he should know better,_ and Viktor can only watch with grim acceptance as he comes down too soon, too slow. His ankle bends under the strain and shoots out from under him, sending him crashing to the ice in a heap of tangled limbs.

Panicked murmurs from the cameraman. On the other side of the rink, Sutemi clutches at his ankle and bares his teeth in soundless pain, his voice too far away to be heard, but Viktor is all too familiar with the sounds he is no doubt making: gasps, short and staccato, the razor-sharp hiss of air sucked between teeth.

Viktor must wince in sympathy because Yurio only nods solemnly, eyes fixed on the Russian junior skaters doing laps around the rink. “Told you. A single _fucking_ axel. I mean, his jumps have always been shitty, but that’s just pathetic.”

“I’ve never seen him miss something like that before,” Viktor murmurs, pressing his fingers hard against his mouth. “He must’ve been dead-tired.”

“He wasn’t, though! Россия-1 said—“

Viktor releases a tight sigh. “I thought I told you to stop reading that stupid tabloid.”

“Fuck you, it’s reliable,” he shoots back, eyes narrowed. A pause. He mutters, “Most of the time, anyway.”

Viktor opens his mouth to retort, but an echoing shout in the video swivels his head back toward the screen. He watches as the cameraman leans over the edge of the bracket, straining to get closer to the crumpled skater on the other side of the rink; Sutemi’s lips are stretched thin in agony and his face is white, but his eyes snap open at the sound of blades on the ice—

And suddenly Yuuri is _there_ , skating with long, even strides toward his student. 

Viktor is raw and exposed as his heart bottoms out in his chest like a lead weight, _falling, falling, falling_. He should’ve expected to see him, he knows, but _expecting_ and _experiencing_ are two entirely different things, and Viktor can no longer look away. Nausea curls in his stomach, insidious and familiar as he watches the events unfold before him.

Yuuri races toward Sutemi with wide, fearful eyes glued to his ankle and unceremoniously drops to his knees the second he’s within reach of the young skater. Yuuri’s mouth moves swiftly with words that Viktor wants—yearns, _needs_ —to understand, but he’s much too far away from the camera, and Viktor’s Japanese has always been spotty, even on a good day. He settles for watching the tableau transpire in front of him in numb silence, a familiar helplessness settling over his mind like a thick, stifling veil.

Yuuri frets over his student and gestures wildly to someone off camera as he tries to control the situation in some way, no matter how big or small. His hands rest against Sutemi’s knee and his fingers do their level best to pry Sutemi’s white-knuckled grip away from his swollen ankle as he shouts and directs people.

There is a clawing in Viktor’s heart as he watches Yuuri fuss over his student with shaky hands and false confidence. His glasses rest lowly on the bridge of his nose, only half-used and unnoticed in the midst of the commotion on the ice, and his hair is pushed back away from his forehead similar to the way he used to wear it when he skated in competitions with steady, assured movements and _don’t ever take your eyes off me._ He looks older, of course, but age has only improved his features, sharpening his jawline and etching fine lines around his eyes from years of laughter—or perhaps worry. Viktor can’t be sure.

A yawning emptiness sits in Viktor’s gut, weightless and mocking. A disembodied voice over his shoulder whispers _what if, what if?_

Memory is a cruel thing, and truth is twice as fickle; details grow fainter as years pass and bad memories turn to stock-still illustrations trapped timelessly in amber, the images skewed by a thick layer of retrospect that grows murkier with each passing day. Viktor _remembers_ the days when Yuuri would fuss over him like that after grueling practices in St. Petersburg: intimate embraces and shy kisses came disguised as late-night ice baths, multicolored foam rollers laid out on the living room floor, and the bitter tug of tendons as they stretched together before bed every night. He _remembers_ the gentle brush of Yuuri’s fingertips against Viktor’s sore, overworked muscles and the way he made sure Viktor never drank too much at galas.

He also remembers their late-night arguments that stretched into mornings and the bitter words they spoke in a language that wasn’t their own and _wasn’t good enough_. 

The video ends in a blur of pixels. Viktor doesn’t move.

“You see why I’m pissed?” Yurio demands, jabbing a finger at the screen. He doesn’t appear to notice the stiffness in Viktor’s shoulders. “That son of a bitch is slacking this season. He never would’ve fallen like that last year!”

Yurio harsh words breathe a little life into Viktor as he stares at the screen and tries to think. It’s an uphill battle.

“He was clearly exhausted,” Viktor says, words hollow. “And he’ll probably be fine for the games, assuming he didn’t break anything.”

“See, that’s why I wanted to find you. Nobody is fessing up about how bad it really is. I figured you’d be able to tell me more by looking at the video than anybody else.”

Viktor bites his lower lip, thinking back to the angle at which Sutemi had fallen. A grimace. “It’s… difficult to say. I don’t think he had enough speed in the jump to break anything when he came back down, but ankles are hard to predict. Worst case scenario, he probably has a torn ligament somewhere. Or maybe it’s just a bad sprain.”

Yurio blows some hair out of his eyes and scowls down at the ground, clearly not satisfied with Viktor’s answer. “You’re as unhelpful as the rest of the article. For all I know, Okukawa could have had his leg fucking amputated.”

“I somehow doubt that’s the case.”

“But you never know!”

Viktor would argue that he does, in fact, know that amputation is completely out of the realm of possibility, but decides against it. Instead, he turns back to the article and scrolls a little lower to finish it.

 

_Okukawa’s coach, former PyeongChang Olympian Yuuri Katsuki, denied to comment when asked about the extent of the skater’s injury. Okukawa has not been seen at his home rink since he was escorted to his sports physician shortly after the incident occurred. The world can’t help but wonder if the gifted skater will appear in Beijing as planned._

_Okukawa appears to be in good spirits about the situation, however. He was quick to reassure his fans with a tweet late last night. (see BELOW)_

           _Setback? more like LAID-BACK #imfine #noreally #walkitoff_  
                 5:30 PM  -  January 6, 2022  
                 5,286 people are talking about this

_The Japanese-American figure skater also posted a promising photo to Instagram, thanking his sports physician and his coach for their quick response to the situation. (see BELOW)_

                _the greatest team that ever teamed. shout-out to @y_katsuki and @harper_rose27 for being the weirdest and most supportive team I could’ve asked for. #nofilter #bestcoach2k22 #caughtintheact_

 

At first, it doesn’t really process.

In the photo, Yuuri is walking up a narrow sidewalk with a sheepish smile on his face. The streetlights glow amber and the sky is inky and endless above his tousled hair, his glasses sitting askew on his face like they’d been hastily put on and subsequently forgotten. His cheeks are flushed with… something.

And then Viktor sees _her._

The details come one by one, rapid-fire, and Viktor can’t stop the deluge of unwanted information. Blonde hair, thick and golden, tumbles past her shoulders in luxurious waves. He spies a narrow waist and feminine hips beneath her college t-shirt and ratty sweatpants, and thin, delicate shoulders compliment a package that is already disgustingly perfect enough. The woman’s too-straight teeth top things off with just the right amount of artificial American flawlessness—

His mouth suddenly goes dry as his eyes fall upon on the spot where the woman’s slender hand touches Yuuri’s arm with a familiar sort of warmth —slender fingers curled around his bicep, nails forming gentle indents in his skin—

Viktor _burns._

He stares, not quite understanding what he’s looking at for several moments. Then, details, stark as ink stains against parchment, bleed through in quick succession after the dam bursts: Viktor sees Yuuri’s wrinkled, clearly slept-in blue t-shirt, the suspicious lack of shoes on his feet, the abnormally-late timestamp of the post and _#caughtintheact?_

It’s been four years. Four _years._ Viktor shouldn’t care about something like this.

_He shouldn’t care._

“—asshole,” Yurio spits, startling Viktor out of his reverie.

He tears his gaze from Yurio’s phone and looks up numbly, not quite processing the boy’s muttered string of curses. Blood roars in his ears, loud and relentless, and he shakes his head to clear the noise.

“Sorry, what?”

Yurio heaves a long-suffering sigh as if being asked to repeat himself is the newest form of capital punishment. “I _said_ that Katsudon’s a secretive little asshole. He won’t tell me shit about what’s going on. I DM’d him this morning and he didn’t respond,” he finishes. Yurio brushes some hair behind his ear and nods at the phone in Viktor’s white-knuckled grip. “I even tried stalking that American lady to see if she posted anything. Still nothing.”

Viktor’s blood runs cold. He holds up the phone and points at the blonde woman on the screen. “Her? You _know_ her?”

If Viktor’s tone sounds panicky, Yurio either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Not really. Saw her at Nationals last year with Sutemi, but that’s about it.”

“Who is she?” Viktor demands.

Yurio opens his mouth and hesitates, finally picking up on the frenzied notes in Viktor’s words. He frowns, as if debating whether or not to answer. “Uh… I think she’s his physical therapist. Or his doctor. Something like that. You _really_ don’t you remember her from Los Angeles?”

Viktor thinks back to Nationals; the only thing he remembers is how Sutemi had taken second by a .28 point margin and the way Yuuri had pretended that Viktor wasn’t even there. Viktor shakes his head. “There were a lot of people.”

“Right,” Yurio murmurs, eyebrows knit together in frigid concern. He regards Viktor carefully for several seconds, biting the inside of his cheek as he thinks. “Um, okay then. Well, she’s some UCLA grad straight out of med school. Sutemi’s daddy pays the big bucks to keep her on retainer in Japan, last I heard. She’s supposedly pretty good at what she does—especially for someone her age.”

 _For someone so young_ is what he really hears, and Viktor clenches his jaw, the fingers of his left hand curling into tight fists. “I see.”

Neither skater says a word for several seconds. Yurio is watching him, Viktor knows, but he can’t bear to make eye contact with his student—not when a myriad of agonized emotions are flitting across his face, too raw and exposed to justify with words.

And then Yurio sucks in a small breath. His mouth opens like he wants to say something, but he stops short and lets out the breath instead.

It’s funny, he thinks, how the silence of words unsaid can be louder than anything else in the world.

Viktor rubs a hand over his face. “There’s something you’re not telling me.” It’s not a question.

To his credit, Yurio doesn’t deny it. He simply bites his lower lip and turns his gaze out toward the junior skaters on the ice in front of them. “It’s… only a rumor,” he murmurs. “Nothing you need to worry about. You know the tabloids are—”

“They’re dating, aren’t they?”

The words cut through him as effortlessly as razors. Yurio winces, says nothing.

And, after several seconds, he nods.

“Supposedly,” he replies carefully. He picks at the hem of his jacket absentmindedly. “There’s no proof or anything, but… yeah. That’s what everyone is saying.”

The silent sound of _inhale, exhale_ is all that follows. A few joyous shouts from the ice as the junior skaters do their laps with bright smiles on their faces, and the musical notes of carefree laughter.

Wordlessly, Viktor hands Yurio’s phone back to him. “I had no idea,” he murmurs, reaching down to unlace his skates. He glances over his shoulder. “How long have they been—“

“Oh, no,” Yurio says, shaking his head resolutely. His jaw is set. “ _Hell_ no. We are not having this conversation.”

“But—“

“No.”

“How—“

“We are _not_ going to talk about this,” he snaps, slicing his hand through the air to cut his coach off from his sputtering. “Stalk Katsudon on your own time or whatever, I don’t care—but from here on out, when you’re with me, you’re _with me._ I can’t afford for you to be distracted this close to the games. That’s how you lost the gold for Russia last time; it can’t happen again.”

Viktor swallows the questions creeping up the back of his throat, bitter like bile, and nods mutely. “Of course. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Yurio laughs humorlessly and shakes his head, golden tresses falling to form a curtain over his eyes. He looks at Viktor through the strands with incredulous carved-jade eyes. “No, _I’m_ sorry. I know PyeongChang was shitty for you and I know Beijing is going to be pretty shitty, too, but believe me when I say I’m trying to help your pathetic ass however I can. You know that stalking Katsudon on Instagram is only going to make things harder for you when you get there. Hearing rumors about what’s-her-face isn’t going to help you, either. Trust me, you’re better off focusing on my training and blocking all the rest of it out, all right?”

“It’s not that easy,” he says weakly.

“Of course it is,” Yurio says, shrugging. “You’ve been doing it for the last four years. A little longer won’t kill you.”

His words hit Viktor like a swift punch to the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him wheezing. His hands curl around the bottom edge of the bench. He’s right, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Yurio doesn’t say anything as Viktor stuffs his skates into his duffel bag and stands to leave, slinging the canvas strap over his shoulder. Yurio stands with him with his hands stuffed deeply into his pockets. Hair hangs in front of his eyes to hide his deeply furrowed brow.

Viktor’s sudden desire to be alone hangs in the air, a silent reminder to both of them that they crossed the line of _too real, too raw._ It’s up to them to take those crucial steps backward and pretend this never happened.

Yurio suddenly exhales sharply, blowing a few strands of hair out of his eyes. He glares at Viktor, but there is no malice behind his gaze.

“Look, I’m sorry, all right?” he says, shrugging his shoulder noncommittally.

Viktor inclines his head forward. “It’s fine. I needed—“

“No, no,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “I’m sorry about _PyeongChang_.” He says the word like it explains everything, even though it doesn’t even come close. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually said that to you before. Wanted to, but didn’t. I figured now would be as good a time as any to bring it up.”

Viktor blinks and his heart stutters uncomfortably in his chest. Surely he heard wrong. “You— what?”

Yurio mutters under his breath about hearing aids and rolls his eyes far back into his head. “I said I’m _sorry_ —“

“I know what you said. I want to know why those words came out of your mouth in the first place,” he says, his voice incisive. Brows set low over fragments of aquamarine, lips stretched tightly over clenched teeth, Viktor tries to keep the mask on his face as best he can.

Yurio’s eyes widen imperceptibly at his tone and he takes half a step backward. “Fuck, man, calm down. I’m just trying to say I’m sorry that you never got what you wanted when you were there.”

He blinks, and some of the tension rolls out of his shoulders. “What I wanted?” he repeats dumbly.

“The gold medal.”

The thing about truth, Viktor knows, is that the longer it stays buried, the harder it is to dig up.

Viktor had wanted many things in PyeongChang. He had wanted to represent his country with pride and skate a clean program for all of his events. He had wanted to split steaming bowls of miso with Yuuri at midnight in the cafeteria after all the athletes had gone to bed. He had wanted to attend skeleton runs and curling matches with his fiancé, both of them wrapped in woolen scarves woven together with the colors of their countries, cups of hot chocolate in their hands and smiles on their faces.

Viktor had never wanted that gold medal. He had wanted _more._

And he’d lost it all.

 

* * *

 

_(Besides, he thought, everything kills everything else in some way.)_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and let me know how you like it. Your comments are always the best motivators.
> 
> Nest stop: Beijing. Watch out Olympic village, here we come!


	7. and sings the tune without the words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't thank you guys enough for the response to this. Every comment, every subscription--they give me chills, honestly. And we're only just getting started. 
> 
> Final transitional chapter! Things are going to get going real fast from here on out.

* * *

 

_February 8, 2018 — PyeongChang, South Korea_

_Yuuri makes his way through the empty village toward the cafeteria with soft, unsure footsteps. He does not expect Viktor to follow him._

_The lights are low and the musical clanking of dishes can be heard from the kitchen across the large, high-ceiling room as Yuuri finds a seat near one of the large windows, a bowl of steaming miso in his hands. Long, low tables seem to stretch from one edge of the room to the other in a maze of chairs, flags, and purple geometric logos. The moonlight paints everything in shades of silver._

_Yuuri cautiously dips his spoon into his bowl of miso. It’s not as good as his mother’s, but nothing ever is._

_“Is this seat taken?”_

_Yuuri doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t have to. He simply shakes his head, and Viktor slides soundlessly into the chair next to him. His hair is rumpled and his face is drawn, the Team Russia jacket slipping low on his shoulders as if it had been put on in haste._

_“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Yuuri murmurs. He stirs his miso absentmindedly, watching the steam curl off the surface of the soup like it’s the most interesting thing in the world._

_Viktor tells him, “It’s fine. I wasn’t asleep anyway.”_

_The silence is heavy between them. In an attempt to keep his mind from doing reckless jumping jacks around a myriad of bitter conclusions, Yuuri diverts his gaze to the window and the manicured landscaping that decorates the main square of the village._ What nice hedges _, he thinks to himself, because it’s much more pleasant than the alternative._

_"The team skate is the easiest event,” Viktor tells him softly, reading Yuuri’s mind with frustrating ease. He rests a hand against Yuuri’s forearm. “The medal doesn’t solely depend on you. Think of it as a practice run, if it helps.”_

_Yuuri frowns. “Easy for you to say. You won gold in Sochi.”_

_“And you won the GPF and Nationals,” he points out. “You need to stop pretending you’re not good enough to be here with me.”_

_Yuuri shakes his head, dropping his gaze to his lap. “It’s not the same.”_

_“It is,” he insists, leaning in to catch Yuuri’s eye. His eyebrows are set low and his mouth is downturned; in the moonlight, he is resplendent. “This is no different from any other competition.”_

_“But if I fail here, I fail Japan. Everybody back home will know about it. My sponsorships—”_

_“Even if you do miss a jump or two, you’re not going to lose your sponsorships. Hey,_ hey _—“ Viktor reaches for Yuuri’s hands before he can bury his face in them, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tightly. He looks Yuuri dead in the eye. “You are not going to fail. Not tomorrow, not in the singles event, and not at the gala. Please believe me when I say that you are going to make Japan—and me—so, so proud in these games.”_

_He wants to believe him. Oh, he_ wants _to. But the sickeningly familiar voice of Yuuri’s anxiety pipes up with a sneered_ you’ll never be good enough _and sows the unsolicited seeds of doubt in the lush soil of his mind._

_Viktor notices Yuuri’s hesitance, sees the reluctance reflected in the endless depths of his dark eyes. He does not offer platitudes. Instead, Viktor smiles warmly and lifts Yuuri’s hands to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to the ever-present band of gold on his left ring finger. He murmurs an indecipherable benediction against the scuffed metal, his words forming a plea in a language Yuuri doesn’t understand and doesn’t need to._

_“Tell you what,” Viktor finally says, soft lips brushing against the calloused skin of Yuuri’s ice-tempered knuckles. “How about we work together first thing tomorrow morning at the rink? I’ll cut my practice with Yakov short so we can focus on your routine for the team skate. We can even get lunch afterward like we used to back home.”_

_And, against his better judgment and the tiny voice saying_ no no no _, Yuuri smiles softly and agrees, squeezing Viktor’s hand. The smile they share is intimate and familiar, and for a brief moment, Yuuri believes his fiancé’s achingly tender words._

_(If hope if the thing with feathers, why does Yuuri feel like he’s falling?)_

  

* * *

 

_February 4, 2022 — Hasetsu, Japan_

_“Omedetōgozaimasu, Sutemi-kun! Ganbarou!”_ everyone shouts, and a smattering of applause thunders in the small dining room of the onsen.

Yuuri’s lips curve against the pads of his fingers as he watches the triplets toss handfuls of multicolored confetti in the air above Sutemi’s head with whoops and whistles. A heaping serving of katsudon sits before the young skater, golden, steaming, and untouched, and Yuuri’s mother smiles from the far wall as he leans in and begins to devour it with enviable gusto.

The party, predictably enough, had been Yuuko’s idea. Yuuri had braced himself before she uttered those fateful words of _hey, here’s an idea_ over dinner at Yu-topia several weeks back, her voice deceptively casual and her eyes sharp over her bowl of rice with an uncharacteristic shrewdness that sent chills down Yuuri’s spine. Sutemi had agreed before Yuuri could make an excuse as to why they could not and would not, for any reason, submit to another one of Yuuko’s meticulously-planned parties ever again—his outlandish thirtieth birthday celebration had been where he’d drawn the line, thank you very much.

But Sutemi had agreed before Yuuri could expound his numerous arguments. So now he stands at the back of the onsen’s main dining room wearing a fitted blazer and his nice jeans, slurping down a glass of too-cold water with the hope that nobody sees him.

On Sutemi’s right at the main table, Minako proposes a wobbly toast with her fifth glass of soju. Nobody has any idea what she’s saying through her slurred words, but they all raise their glasses and cheer anyway as if it’s the most inspiring speech any of them have ever heard. Yuuri lifts his glass of water a few inches higher in honor of his student and tries his best to blend into the nearest potted plant.

His hiding skills must leave something to be desired, however, because Harper finds him easily enough.

“Please tell me that’s soju,” she drawls, suddenly slipping past Takeshi and Yuuko to stand next to Yuuri at the back of the room. She is wearing low-slung jeans and a soft blue sweater that matches her eyes, and her hair is braided casually over her shoulder. “Because if it isn’t, then I’m going to get you some right now. It’s called a celebration for a reason, Katsuki, and you can’t celebrate without destroying your liver.”

Yuuri elbows a few of the over-large leaves of the plant out of his way. “I’m pretty sure that’s not true. At all.”

“It would at least dull your sharp edges a little bit,” she tells him, smirking. She nods at the glass in his hands. “So, what’s your drink of choice? Gin? Vodka?”

Yuuri clears his throat and drops his gaze to the condensation on the outside of his glass. He swirls the clear liquid guiltily. “This is, uh—“ he swallows “—water, actually. I don’t like to—“

“You don’t like to drink before competitions,” she finishes softly. “Yeah, I know. But you’re not competing anymore, so _surely_ you can have one drink with me. Right?”

He hesitates. A small cheer erupts from the other side of the room as Sutemi receives another half-slurred toast from his aunt. Harper watches him expectantly, and he feels oddly exposed beneath her gaze.

“I’d rather not be hungover on the plane tomorrow, if it’s all the same to you,” he says regretfully, running his finger around the rim of his glass. “Sorry.”

“No, no. You’ve got a point. Vomiting halfway to China would really suck,” she concedes, taking a sip of her own cocktail. Harper wrinkles her nose as she swallows and bares her teeth in revulsion after it goes down. “Jesus. This stuff could strip paint. How does Minako knock these back so easily?”

“Years and years of practice,” Yuuri says sagely, and his heart stutters when Harper lets out a melodious laugh. He feels the tips of his ears grow hot when he notices the crinkles of amusement in the corners of her eyes; he quickly averts his gaze to the toes of his shoes.

He feels Harper’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t look up. He can’t.

“So, what are you doing back here?” she asks, voice colored with mild curiosity. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were hiding.”

Yuuri _is_ hiding, but he’d sooner do a tap dance for Viktor than admit such a thing. He rubs the back of his neck and shrugs.

“Don’t like crowds,” he mumbles, focusing on the way the condensation of his glass seeps through his fingers. “And it’s Sutemi’s turn in the spotlight, not mine. I’m supposed to be invisible, remember?”

She nods, glancing sidelong at the Olympian in question; he is swatting at Lutz and Loop as they wave a GoPro in his face and rattle off questions from his fans with shrill voices. Her voice is quiet against the deafening murmur of the guests.

“You’ve made yourself invisible to a lot of people, Yuuri, but I’m not one of them.” She takes another sip of her drink and cringes. “You’re not enjoying yourself. Tell me how I can help.”

Her question throws him, and he gawks at her for several seconds before he manages to pull himself back together. He shakes his head. “I’m fine, really. The party is great. It’s just…” he trails, searching for the word. “Memories.”

She tilts her head to one side in curiosity. “Memories,” she repeats. “Of what?”

“My send-off to PyeongChang.” Yuuri gestures to the party, at the people packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the dining room as they war over rice and the chance to exchange a handshake with Sutemi. “They did something similar for me before I went. It just feels weird, I guess, to watch it happen again from a different perspective.”

She regards him carefully, absorbing his words and mulling them over. Purses her lips. For one horrible second, Yuuri thinks she’s going to pity him and offer the same platitudes he’s heard a thousand times before— _we don’t blame you, Katsuki-san, you made your country proud._

But she doesn’t do that because she’s Harper, and Harper always surprises him.

With no preamble, she dumps her cocktail into the plant next to him and sets her glass on the windowsill, wiping her palms on her jeans before holding out her left hand for him to take.

“Come on,” she says, and jerks her head toward a nearby door that leads out to the back terrace. “Let’s get some air.”

Yuuri hesitates, gripping his own glass so hard he worries it’ll shatter. He glances nervously at Sutemi. “I’m not sure if—“

“Ten minutes,” Harper implores. She smiles secretively, eyes bright with mischief. “Come on, Yuuri. Ten minutes, that’s all I’m asking. No one will even know we’re gone.” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “After all, we’re invisible, aren’t we?”

Yuuri would argue that Harper is the complete opposite of invisible with her bright eyes, blinding smile, and effervescent California-bred personality, but he doesn’t have time to form the correct words before she clasps his hand in her own and turns on her heel, leading him through the crowd with surprising strength.

Yuuri keeps his eyes trained on the rhythmic sway of her tousled braid as she drags him toward the door and forces himself to ignore the way her hand fits so nicely in his own. Every second is an uphill battle, and Yuuri is losing ground fast. He dodges stray elbows and boisterous groups of people as they slip through the crowd, hand-in-hand; their swift footsteps and coordinated movements almost feel like an exotic dance for two that Yuuri had never before taken the time to practice, but now sorely wishes that he had.

Miraculously, they manage to slip through the kitchen door and sneak past the remaining guests without being seen. Yuuri’s face is beet-red at this point and his palm is damp against Harper’s, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, and Yuuri is grateful that she doesn’t immediately point it out.

The evening air is brisk but forgiving for early February, and Yuuri is suddenly incredibly grateful that he’d decided to wear his blazer for the party. The southern terrace of the onsen is—thankfully—devoid of people. Lanterns are lit above their heads and shriveled, leftover cherry blossoms float softly on the breeze as they detach from the trees’ spindly branches.

Harper releases his hand and walks toward one of the stone benches, pulling the sleeves of her sweater past her knuckles absentmindedly. She hugs her arms to her stomach and spins lazily on her heel as she takes in the remaining cherry blossoms with a smile on her face.

Her gaze finds his across the terrace. “You looked like you were suffocating in there. I thought you could use a rescue.”

“My hero,” Yuuri drawls, walking carefully down the wide stone steps toward her. He feels one corner of his mouth creep up in a small half-smile. “But seriously—thanks. I, uh… needed this more than I thought.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says lightly, waving him off. Her cheeks are pink from the cold; strangely, the color suits her. “It wasn’t hard to see how uncomfortable you were. I’ve worked with you for two years, Katsuki. I know your tells.”

Yuuri sets his glass of water on the ground near the stairs and sticks his hands in his back pockets as he approaches her, his gait loose and languid. “My tells,” he repeats, arching an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

“Nope,” she says brightly, popping the _p._ She hops up onto the bench and holds out her arms on either side of her like she’s balancing precariously on a tightrope. “Trade secrets. Surely you can understand.”

Yuuri comes to stand just below Harper. He tilts his chin back to observe as she carefully steps heel-to-toe along the length of the bench, lower lip caught between teeth in mock concentration. The moonlight paints her translucent lashes in a stunning shade of sterling silver.

“You’re not even going to give me a hint?” he goads, following her as she advances down the length of the bench-turned-balance beam. “I thought we were friends, Harper.”

“Oh, you _wound_ me,” she says, smirking down at him. When she reaches the end of the bench and turns around to come back, she gives Yuuri an appraising look, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. After a moment, she shrugs. “It’s not any one thing that I noticed, honestly. You’re just an open book when you get nervous.”

Yuuri hums. “What a boring answer.”

One of Harper’s feet kicks out and makes gentle contact with his shoulder, shoving him half a step to the side. “Shut up. It’s the truth.”

“Well, you could’ve lied and made me sound at least a _little_ bit more interesting.”

She snorts. “Come on, you’re one of the most interesting people I know. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Heel-to-toe, she steps carefully down the length of the bench. The tips of Yuuri’s ears burn. He really shouldn’t be surprised by her candor after all this time, but the honesty in her words still sends him pitching like a ship at sea.

Harper glances down at him, eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. “I mean it, you know. Don’t doubt me.”

He exhales a short laugh. “You’ve got to stop reading my mind like that.”

“Then stop making it so easy,” she retorts.

With a sigh, she drops her outstretched arms and abruptly stops walking. Yuuri squeaks as she bends down and braces her hand against his shoulder for stability as she hops to the ground before taking a seat on the bench and patting the spot next to her expectantly. The spot where her hand had rested is searing with residual heat—Yuuri is absolutely positive his face is _flaming_.

He sits heavily next to her and keeps his gaze trained on the decorated archway on the other side of the terrace. Harper hums, hugging her arms to her stomach. Bouts of laughter roll through the open windows of the onsen and mingle with the soft whisper of half-wilted cherry blossoms in odd, discordant harmony.

“Can I ask you something?” Harper inquires softly, fiddling with the hem of her sweater. Yuuri nods hesitantly, suddenly feeling on edge because Harper’s questions are always direct and unsparing, even if she doesn’t mean them to be.

“Are you happy?”

It’s not what he expects her to ask at all. Moreover, he’s not sure why he’s even remotely surprised.

Yuuri blinks. “What, right now?”

“In general,” she clarifies, nodding at the door they escaped from not five minutes ago. “With your life here. With Sutemi and Minako. Your family. _Me_ ,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

Yuuri exhales through his nose. He reaches up to rub the back of his neck as he weighs his words. “That’s… kind of a loaded question.”

“It’s really not,” she tells him, cocking her head to one side. She leans forward and tries to catch his eye. “It’s a simple yes or no, Yuuri. Are you happy?”

“Why are you asking?”

Harper leans back and tilts her face toward the stars, tugging her lower lip between her teeth. “When I saw you hiding in there, you just looked so… I don’t know. Sad? Lost?” She shrugs, dropping her gaze back to her lap. “You’ve had that look on your face a lot lately. I’m worried about you.”

Yuuri thinks of Mari’s concerned glances, Minako’s skeptical eyebrow raises over dinner, and Sutemi’s continued questions of _are you okay, sensei?_

Is there anyone left in Hasetsu who _isn’t_ worried about Yuuri?

He laughs humorlessly. “You and everyone else,” he mumbles. “To answer your question, though, I am perfectly content with the way my life is turning out. It’s, ah… a lot better than I ever hoped it would be.”

(He’d hoped for a lot, once, but his expectations are more realistic these days. There’s nothing wrong with that, he tells himself over and over again. Nothing at all.)

Harper, to her credit, does not appear to notice the lie behind his words. She simply nods, smiling faintly. “Good,” she says. “I’m glad. You deserve to be happy, Yuuri.”

An image of Viktor rises to the forefront of Yuuri’s mind, unbidden and cruelly vivid. His blue-green eyes are wide behind pale lashes, glimmering with angry, unshed tears. The multicolored lights of the Olympic village outline his lithe frame like cut onyx and his voice carves a path with _don’t you dare walk out that door, Katsuki Yuuri. Don’t you_ dare.

_No,_ he thinks bitterly, barely even noticing as Harper leans her head on his shoulder with a soft sigh. _I’m not sure I deserve to be happy at all._

  

* * *

 

_February 6, 2022 — Beijing, China_

After working with Sutemi for so many years, Yuuri has grown inconveniently accustomed to the benefits of having a sponsorship courtesy of Japan Airlines. The perks are infinitesimal and numerous: Yuuri enjoys the use of his padded armrest, relishes the extra leg room that coach simply doesn’t have, the exquisitely endless food choices, and he can’t help but preen every time one of the stewardesses smiles and asks him if he would like another hot towel (or twenty).

Yuuri’s flight to Beijing is comfortable even if it is not, strictly speaking, good for his mental health.

His watch reads 5:12 AM, and the sun is just starting to rise above the skyscrapers of Beijing as their plane descends into the hazy city. Sutemi is drooling on Yuuri’s shoulder, and Harper’s fingers are locked around Yuuri’s forearm in a sleep-strong grip that he can’t bring himself to break. Her soft breath is warm against his neck, and— _god_ , why does his skin suddenly feel too tight on his bones?

Yuuri feels the lurch in his stomach as they lose altitude above the city. Turbulence assaults the fuselage of the plane, but Sutemi and Harper do not wake. Instead, Sutemi mumbles something about holes in his socks and proceeds to drool even _more_ on Yuuri’s shirtsleeve like he’s unconsciously trying to prove something. Harper, to her credit, only sighs and snuggles closer to Yuuri, pressing her cheek against the bones of his shoulder as if they’re actually comfortable.

Yuuri’s cheeks are on fire and _he cannot do this_ —

Sleeping next to Sutemi on an early-morning flight is old hat for Yuuri at this point. Sutemi has always been a heavy sleeper, especially on early morning flights like this one, and his penchant for drooling is something Yuuri’d expected; he had boarded with an extra shirt in his carry on for this specific purpose, and he plans on putting that shirt to use the second they touch down on the tarmac at BCIA.

Flying with Harper, however, is a new experience.

In the past two years, Harper has only attended a handful of Sutemi’s competitions. She had joined them initially in Los Angeles for Nationals, but she had been finishing her residency in the city at that point. When she’d signed on with Sutemi, she took her own flight back to Hasetsu after the fact, and Yuuri hadn’t thought twice about it.

Then she’d started tagging along for competitions, but she still never flew with Yuuri and Sutemi—not in the typical sense, anyway. She had always insisted on paying for her own flights out of pocket for some self-righteous reason that her parents instilled in her from a frustratingly young age. Harper rarely accepted charity for that reason, especially in the form of a pre-paid plane ticket to god-knows-where for some skating competition she didn’t really understand, and she sure as hell wasn’t about to fly first class when there were “perfectly respectable seats in economy class, thank you.”

Harper and Yuuri had always bickered about it during the days leading up to a competition. Regardless, she’d always ended up taking a separate flight or sitting in a lower class for no good reason other than appeasing her stubborn streak.

Now Yuuri wishes she’d stuck to her guns for the Olympics. Damn that woman and her jasmine-scented shampoo.

Above Yuuri’s head, the intercom light blinks a steady pulse of red.

_“Ladies and gentlemen, please return your seats to the upright and locked position. We will be landing shortly.”_

A quick glance at Sutemi’s seat reveals that it’s already upright, and Yuuri lets out a breath of relief; it’s hard to rouse that kid for anything before nine in the morning, let alone to put his seat up. Harper, however—

Yuuri taps the back of her hand gently, noting the fine lacework of blue veins beneath freckled skin. “Hey,” he whispers, leaning close to her ear. “Harper. Wake up. We’re going to land soon.”

She shifts, pressing her nose against Yuuri’s shoulder. She inhales deeply and murmurs something in English under her breath, but her eyes do not open.

Yuuri leans close again, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Harper, seriously, I can’t feel my arm—“

“Ugh,” she groans, eyebrows furrowing. “Go’ _way._ S’too early.”

“You can go back to sleep when we get to the village,” he tells her gently, easing his arm out of her vice-like grip. “Come on, my fingers are really numb.” A thought occurs to him, and he tries not to think of it as bribery when he adds, “Hey, if you get up now, I’ll let you sleep until dinner once we get to the village.”

Harper, always a fan of sleeping at ridiculous times of the day, cracks open one eyelid. She glares up at him.

“Promise?” Her voice is thick with sleep, cheeks tattooed with the creases of Yuuri’s shirtsleeve.

Yuuri laughs quietly. A nod. “Promise.”

And although she doesn’t look happy about it, she does begin to wake up, slowly but surely. She pushes off his shoulder with a muttered apology and stretches her arms above her head with a sigh before adjusting her seat and tightening her seatbelt. Harper blinks slowly and winces at the pale beginnings of sunlight slipping through the tiny window on Yuuri’ left.

She spares a glance at Yuuri, noting the hunched position of his shoulders and the crumpled state of his shirt. She winces. “Sorry.”

Yuuri waves her off clumsily with his numb hand. “It’s fine. At least you don’t drool like he does.”

“Fuck off,” is Sutemi’s sleep-addled reply, and they both share a laugh.

The plane lands without any delays, and Yuuri thanks every deity he knows that he is able to find a bathroom just outside the gate where he can change his shirt in short order. They rely on Yuuri’s mostly-fluent grasp of Mandarin to find their bags and equipment before they’re finally able to hail an Uber—all within the span of two hours. It’s a new record in Yuuri’s numerous past experiences with customs, and he is pleased.

But as they approach the village, nerves begin to settle beneath his skin. The closer they get, the more he itches. The more he _chafes._

Sutemi keeps sending worried glances Yuuri’s way via the rearview mirror as if he can sense his coach’s bundled, frayed nerves from three feet away. Harper, delightfully enough, does not directly address the tension that hangs in the air. Instead, she is perfectly content to snap photos of the passing buildings and congested traffic as they inch closer toward the heart of Beijing.

Yuuri keeps repeating it over and over in his head like a mantra. _We’re early, we’re early, Viktor would never arrive so soon, there’s no way—_

But before Yuuri knows it, the Uber has pulled up into the front half-circle drive of the Olympic village. He is out of time.

The Olympic village isn’t as much a village as it is an oversized city block with strategically-placed greenery in the middle, Yuuri notes with some amusement. Identical apartment-style buildings line each side of the long, narrow, rectangular plot of land, encasing a series of smooth, wide sidewalks and manicured landscaping that doesn’t look nearly as good in winter as it would in the deepest part of summer.

A couple dozen athletes, coaches, and members of the maintenance staff are milling around the grounds. Some are toting suitcases as they move into their buildings and others are going for warmup runs along the slate sidewalks, gesturing as they speak to one another in broken English. Yuuri spies a few Team Canada and Team South Korea jackets among the athletes, as well as a handful of red, white, and blue jackets belonging to Team USA.

Yuuri does not see any Russian jackets. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Harper snaps photos left and right with a blinding grin and a faint flush on her cheeks. She clambers out of the car like she can’t move fast enough. Sutemi trades a knowing glance with Yuuri before following suit, his headphones loose around his neck.

Yuuri can only sigh softly in resignation. Surely the Uber driver wouldn’t mind if he stayed in this car for another two or three weeks, right?

God, he wishes. Against his better judgment, he gets out of the car.

“This is incredible!” Harper cries, sweeping her phone around for a panoramic shot of the expansive grounds. Yuuri tries for a smile as he approaches the trunk of the car and takes two of the suitcases from Sutemi’s arms. “I can’t believe we get to stay here for a _month._ It’s so beautiful!”

“It’s certainly nicer than the village in PyeongChang, I’ll say that much. It’s a lot more… open, I guess. And the buildings are shorter,” Yuuri remarks, thinking back to the thirty-story building he and Viktor had inhabited in 2018—one of eight dormitories, whereas there are dozens of smaller ones here. If he squints to his left past the modern facilities, he can make out the shining silver dome of the ice rink on the other side of the Olympic park; it’s only a handful of miles away. “Rink’s closer, too. That’s good.”

“Please tell me we’re not practicing today,” Sutemi grumbles, shutting the trunk of the car with a resounding _thunk._ He dusts his hands off on his joggers and gathers up the duffel bags at his feet, slinging them over his shoulders. The look he gives Yuuri is an amusing mixture of pleading and irritation. “For the love of god, sensei, _please._ I’m so fucking tired.”

“Language,” he warns, even though he knows it’s fruitless. Yuuri notes the bags under Sutemi’s eyes and the disgruntled expression on his face from the trip; he’s always had the worst jet lag Yuuri’s ever seen, even in the case of short flights. “You and Harper can nap in your rooms until dinner if you want,” Yuuri tells them, nodding in silent thanks to the Uber driver as he takes off. “We’ll start practicing first thing tomorrow morning, though. Don’t get lazy now that you’re here.”

“Me? Lazy?” He scoffs. “Come on, sensei. Look who you’re talking to.”

He gives Sutemi a pointed up-and-down. “Oh, trust me, I’m looking. Set two backup alarms.”

Harper pockets her phone and approaches, taking her proffered suitcases from Yuuri with a grateful smile. She glances sidelong at Sutemi. “I’d listen to him if I were you, kiddo. You’re not sharing rooms this time around. You’ve got to stay on your toes.”

Sutemi huffs as they begin to walk further into the village, following the curving path laid out by the spotless sidewalks. “You guys are gonna be right across the hall. I’m not exactly worried about missing my events.”

“You should be,” Yuuri mutters. “There was an American snowboarder in PyeongChang who almost missed his event because he slept in, you know.”

Sutemi blinks. “Yeah, but he won gold anyway _._ What’s your point?”

“My point is that you don’t want to be known as the guy who almost skipped his free skate because he hit the snooze button too many times. Don’t push your luck here, Sutemi. These games are not forgiving.”

Harper hums in agreement, chin tilted upward as she surveys the sleek buildings that rise up on all sides of them. “What are you going to do all day while we’re napping, Yuuri? You’d better not go sightseeing without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies breezily, and he feels the slightest pang of guilt as soon as the words are out of his mouth. He doesn’t know why—it’s always been easy to joke with Harper, but he’s never felt bad about it. He shrugs it off. “But no, it’s not that. I, uh… I actually have plans tonight.”

Sutemi perks up. “You?” he asks disbelievingly. “ _You_ have plans?”

Yuuri frowns at his tone. “Don’t sound so surprised. I go out sometimes.”

“No you don’t,” Sutemi deadpans. “You live at the rink and sleep. _Sometimes_. That’s your life, sensei.”

Harper swats his shoulder, eyebrows lowered. “He’s allowed to have plans. It’s not like he needs your permission,” she tells him flatly. She turns her electric gaze back on Yuuri with a smile. “Old friends, I’m guessing?”

Yuuri feels his cheeks flush beneath her gentle scrutiny. “Yeah. It’s just a few people from my competitive days. I didn’t really want to—“

“Which friends?” Sutemi blurts, eyes wide. He abruptly elbows past Harper to stand closer to his coach, ignoring her squawk of protest. “Chulanont? JJ Leroy? _Iglesia?_ ” he finishes in an awed whisper.

Yuuri shoots him a strange look. Reluctantly, he nods. “Phichit is coming, yes. And so is Leo, if his plane gets here in time. But I don’t think JJ is skating this year because of his kids.”

Sutemi nods, biting the inside of his cheek. “Right, right, I knew that.” His eyes brighten suddenly, and Yuuri already has a _no_ poised on his tongue before Sutemi asks, “Can I come? I promise I won’t bother you!”

“I thought you were tired,” Yuuri points out.

“I’ll drink some coffee! Power through it, mind over matter, all that jazz,” he rambles. He claps his hands together and bows his head in supplication. “Please, sensei. I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.”

Harper snorts and shakes her head, fighting a smile—Sutemi either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, and Yuuri fidgets under his imploring gaze. “Uh… maybe you can come next time. When you’re not jet lagged, you know?”

“But—“

“Oh, give it a rest,” Harper says, slinging an arm around Sutemi’s neck. She winks at him over Sutemi’s shoulder, and Yuuri’s face suddenly feels much warmer in the February chill. “Let the man have fun for one night. After coaching you 24/7, he needs it.”

Sutemi looks crestfallen, but he nods and sinks against Harper’s shoulder. “I suppose,” he mutters. Glances over at Yuuri. “Still, I can come next time, right?”

“Sure,” Yuuri tells him. He has no idea whether or not that’s true, but it’s better than immediately crushing his student’s dreams of meeting his skating heroes over dinner. Yuuri’s a tough coach, but he’s not heartless, no matter what the tabloids say about him.

The three of them chat aimlessly as they walk the length of the village, suitcases rolling over concrete and the zippers of their bags jingling against their hips with every step. A pair of Canadian skiers wave as they pass, and a few of Team Japan’s snowboarders call out greetings and point the way to the building designated for skaters at the end of the village.

Along the way, they manage to locate the cafeteria-style restaurant near the center of the village. Tables and chairs are spread out behind the large glass windows as far as the eye can see, and flags of every nation splash dizzyingly vivid colors across the walls. A brief look at the outdoor menu makes Yuuri’s mouth water in anticipation; the food is certainly one thing he’s missed about the games.

They also find a small souvenir shop attached to the cafeteria, as well as an artisan coffee shop that smells of earthy espresso and rich, buttery pastries—none of which Sutemi can eat, as he so sourly points out. Harper makes fun of him by detailing how many calories she plans to consume while she’s here, and Yuuri can’t help but chuckle at the tortured expression on Sutemi’s sleep-deprived face. Their running commentary is almost enough to distract him from the torrential string of _this is real this is real oh my god_ that is running through his head.

In retrospect, Yuuri is surprised things didn’t go wrong much, much sooner.

The second they step inside the doors of their building, Harper pulls out their plastic ID cards from the front pocket of her coat and hands them out to their respective owners. Yuuri lifts his eyebrows at his picture. It’s not bad, all things considered. His hair is a little mashed and messy, but still—not the worst ID photo he’s ever had.

Harper jerks a thumb toward the front desk where a petite, dark-haired receptionist is waiting with a smile. “I’m going to see if the front desk has an updated itinerary for you, Sutemi. Why don’t you guys head to the rooms and get settled, and I’ll come up when I’m done. Sound good?”

Sutemi nods. “Sure thing, Dr. Ingram. Want us to take your bags?”

She shakes her head. “Nah, I’ve got them. Thanks for the offer, though. Go on and take your nap while you can.”

And with that, she turns on her heel and marches to the receptionist, bags in hand. Yuuri and Sutemi linger out of a misplaced sense of chivalry—if she’s going to fill out all that paperwork, surely the least they can do is take her bags upstairs—but they know better than to offer twice.

With a heavy exhale, Yuuri and his student turn toward the elevators against the far wall. Sutemi presses the seamless steel button on the panel to call the elevator. He sighs, and rocks back on his heels while they wait. The low murmur of Mandarin from the front desk is comforting and familiar, and soft music plays from speakers set into the high ceiling.

Sutemi clears his throat. “Do I need anything to get into the rink tomorrow morning?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Just your ID,” he replies. “Carry that thing with you at all times if you know what’s good for you.”

“I plan on it. And the cafeteria—“

“Is open twenty-four hours,” Yuuri finishes, smirking.

The elevator is slow, and Yuuri begins anxiously tapping his foot against the marble tile while they wait. At his side, Sutemi slips his phone out of his pocket and begins scrolling aimlessly through social media.

After a few seconds, Yuuri peeks over his student’s shoulder surreptitiously. He smirks at what he sees.

He asks, “Checking to see if your American friend has arrived yet?”

Sutemi yanks his phone out of sight and shoves it in his pockets; his ears are pink as he sputters, “What? No! Why would I be looking? I mean, she’s—“ He huffs, frustrated. “—Jesus, sensei. I don’t even know if she’s _competing_.”

“Liar,” Yuuri says lightly. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. They step inside, dragging their bags behind them. “Really though, I don’t blame you for being excited. How long’s it been since you’ve seen her?”

Sutemi drops his suitcase on the floor of the elevator. He pushes the button a little harder than necessary and rakes a nervous hand through his hair. “I don’t know. A year or two? I saw her at Skate America last season, but we didn’t have time to talk or anything.”

“Mm,” is Yuuri’s response. He taps his chin with his index finger in thought. “Is she still dating that hockey player?”

Sutemi groans, drops his head backward against the wall with an audible _thunk_. The elevator doors emit a pleasant-sounding _ding_ and begin to slide back together, steel scraping together lightly. “Ugh, can we _please_ not talk about this right now? She’s just a friend, honestly—“

A hand darts between the doors just before they close, cutting him off with no preamble.

A very pale, slender hand.

A _familiar_ hand.

Ice floods Yuuri’s veins as the doors slide open, and Sutemi stiffens next to him in realization. Yuuri can’t hear anything aside from the rush of blood as it all drains from his face, and his fingers immediately begin to tremble at his side.

Damn. Viktor Nikiforov hasn’t aged a _day_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *avoids thrown objects* 
> 
> Sorry, guys, this was just getting a little too long. Next chapter should be up by Friday, though! And it's a DOOZY. 
> 
> commentcommentcomment


	8. until human voices wake us, and we drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No flashback. Jump on in.

* * *

 

_February 6, 2022 — Beijing, China_

 

When Viktor was eleven years old, he spent a marvelous day at Divo Ostrov.

He doesn’t remember much from his time at the amusement park, despite how much he wishes otherwise; after twenty years, what he has left of that day are mere pieces of a larger, more colorful picture that, when put together, form a fractured replica of something Viktor can almost recall. He remembers the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulders as he pushed him forward in line for rides, as well as the wide swath of scarlet the sun had painted across his cheekbones by the day’s end. He remembers rainbow-colored ice cream and greasy foods, posing for photos with strange men in fluffy costumes, and children who sat next to him on rides who never treated him like he was different.

Unfortunately, Viktor also remembers the massive, looping rollercoaster that sat in the center of the park; he does not remember the name of it, only that it was blue and high off the ground and shaky and so, so _scary._ He remembers stepping off the ride afterwards and collapsing into his father’s arms, sobbing and sniveling like a baby even though he was eleven, and eleven year-old boys weren’t supposed to be afraid of _anything_.

To this day, Viktor still despises rollercoasters. The initial gut-wrenching incline and the _chuckchuckchuck_ of the chain as it catches the cars and lifts them skyward, the split-second of hesitance when the ride crests the highest hill, and the subsequent plunge into weightlessness. Oh, how he _hates_ it. There is no worse feeling in the world.

Seeing Yuuri in the elevator feels a lot like that.

Viktor’s stomach drops as the doors slide apart, his hand frozen in midair. His feet, his fingers—they slowly grow numb and prickly, and his tongue feels thick in his mouth, too heavy to form words that could salvage this situation. Nausea rolls his stomach.

He can’t—

He can’t _move._

This isn’t how this is supposed to happen. Viktor had planned on stumbling across Yuuri at the rink during one of their practices, maybe, or spying him across the cafeteria at breakfast with a cup of tea at his elbow and a dreamy, sleep-addled expression on his face. If he had been extraordinarily lucky, maybe Viktor wouldn’t have seen him until the night of the opening ceremony.

But here? Running into Yuuri in the lobby of the building they’ll apparently be sharing for the next _month_? Viktor isn’t prepared for that all.

Yuuri is pressed against the back wall of the elevator, looking for all intents and purposes like he wants to melt into the metal siding and disappear forever, and Viktor cannot blame him. His dark eyes are wide behind his glasses—he still has the same blue frames as before, Viktor notices, and it’s almost funny except that it’s _not_ —and his hair is longer around his ears in the most agonizingly beautiful way. His cheekbones are sharper than ever and his lips are slightly chapped—

Yuuri’s student shifts slightly in front of his teacher to block Viktor’s line of sight, and the spell is suddenly broken.

In every Instagram post of Sutemi’s that Viktor has shamelessly stalked, he has never seen Sutemi look as murderous as he does now. The glare he is shooting in Viktor’s direction is a special kind of black hatred that jolts a little life back into his frozen body, the feeling oddly reminiscent of needles pricking his skin in a thousand different places. Slowly, Viktor drops his hand back to his side. His throat feels tight, his lungs devoid of all air that would make words possible—not that there are any words that would fit this situation other than _oh, god, why?_

Sutemi murmurs something in Japanese that makes Yuuri flinch, as if the sound had startled him. Viktor’s Japanese is rusty, almost to the point of being nonexistent, so he doesn’t catch Sutemi’s meaning, and he is almost grateful for that.

Yuuri’s mouth moves soundlessly, opening and closing like a fish out of water. He is just as speechless as Viktor and dammit, it should be _satisfying_ to watch him flounder like this.

(It isn’t.)

Sutemi takes his coach’s silence as an answer, his face contorting into a glower that could melt solid steel. “Take the next one,” he says in crisp English.

Viktor has never heard a more brilliant idea in his life. He swallows down the knot in his throat—god, he feels like he’s _choking—_ and nods once, twice. He steps out of the way of the threshold.

Yurio has other ideas, however.

“Hell no,” he snaps suddenly, pushing past Viktor’s shoulder. He slaps a hand against the side of the threshold to keep the elevator doors from closing prematurely. “I’m too jet-lagged to put up with your shit, Okukawa. We’re getting on _now_.”

Sutemi’s eyes narrow dangerously, but he does not respond to Yurio’s goading. Instead, he calmly turns his head to the side and looks back at Yuuri.

“Sensei?” he asks quietly.

Yuuri blinks once, twice. His shoulders loosen fractionally and he peels himself off the wall with a shell-shocked expression on his face. He nods numbly and steps to the side, gesturing for them to enter the elevator with them. Sutemi frowns, as if he did not expect Yuuri to acquiesce.

If Viktor’s being honest, he is just as surprised. He does his best not to let it show.

Yurio jabs Viktor in the ribs sharply with his elbow when he doesn’t step into the compartment. “You gonna get in or what?” He nods, swallowing thickly, and does as he is bid.

The elevator is tight with the four of them and all of their luggage, but they make it work. Each person has at least one large suitcase between them as a buffer, but the separation offers little comfort in the tiny, cramped space. The doors close behind Yurio and Viktor with a discordant dinging sound that makes Yuuri recoil.

Swallowing his nerves, Viktor goes to hit the button for the tenth floor—

Oh. It’s already been pressed.

 _Fuck_.

Yuuri watches him with wide, horrified eyes as Viktor retracts his hand from the panel, leaving it untouched. Viktor had hoped they wouldn’t be on the same floor, but fate is a fickle mistress, it seems, and she is not going to be merciful this time around. Viktor clasps his shaking hands behind his back and straightens his shoulders, training his gaze at a spot directly above Yuuri’s head.

They begin their ascent.

“So,” Yurio starts, crossing his arms over his chest. He narrows his eyes at Sutemi and gives him a scathing once-over. “I didn’t think you’d show up.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Sutemi hums. He cuts an imposing figure in the tiny elevator with his broad shoulders and impressive height. “Heard you skipped Nationals. Running scared before the games, Plisetsky?”

“You wish. I didn’t go ‘cause winning would’ve been way too easy.”

Sutemi lets out a mirthless chuckle, and he shakes his head slowly from side to side. “Still as arrogant as ever. Glad to see you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Sutemi,” Yuuri murmurs, a quiet warning. But Yurio and Sutemi don’t seem to hear him, or maybe they just don’t care.

“At least I didn’t ditch the whole fucking season with zero explanation,” Yurio snaps.

“Well, forgive me if I don’t run all my professional decisions by you. I’ll make sure to do that next season.”

Yurio bristles, and his eyes freeze over as he glares. “Whatever, asshole. How’s your ankle?”

“How are your step sequences?”

Animosity crackles in the air like electricity, hot and biting with a sour aftertaste, and the elevator suddenly seems so much smaller than it did before. Viktor’s eyes involuntarily drift shut. He feels the beginnings of a migraine, and he winces, rubbing his temples.

Resentment rolls off of Yurio in waves, and Viktor almost drowns in it; Yurio’s been so touchy about his step sequences lately. “At least I can land a single axel without breaking my foot. Honestly, do you have _any_ quads in your program this year, or are you just here because your country needed a skater and you were the best they had since Yuzuru retired?”

Sutemi’s ears flush red, but not with embarrassment. His lips thin in displeasure. “Big words for someone so small. How the hell’d you fit that ego in your carry-on?”

“Get _fucked_ , Okukawa _,_ ” he snaps, taking half a step forward into Sutemi’s space. He jabs a finger at Yuuri, who is staring wide-eyed at the panel of buttons as if watching the light change will make the elevator go faster and wake them up from this nightmare before it gets worse. “You’re both shit at your jumps, so I’m not even remotely worried about beating you with that garbage routine Katsudon’s cooked up for you. I have four quads in my program—“

“Four quads? How original,” Sutemi scoffs. He taps his chin in mock contemplation and tilts his head to one side. “You’re probably planning on lifting your arms for all your jumps, too. Oh, and don’t tell me—you’re skating to an Italian aria this season. Carmen, probably.”

He’s right, and Viktor visibly winces. Yurio’s face flushes with rage, and his hands shake at his sides where they are clenched into tight fists. “The judges like—“

“The judges like being _surprised_. Face it, Plisetsky: you don’t have that shock factor anymore. Your ballet moves were old two years ago, and they’re old now,” Sutemi finishes vituperatively. A pause, and a smile crosses his face, chilling and razor-sharp. “I am really, _really_ looking forward to kicking you off the top of the podium this year. I think it’s long overdue—wouldn’t you agree?”

They’re just now passing the sixth floor. Yuuri’s shaky fingers are tracing the embossed number ten on the button panel, and Viktor is sweating uncomfortably beneath his overcoat. Next to him, Yurio sneers something vile in Russian, and Viktor recoils. Yuuri’s eyes also widen a bit—ah, so he remembers the language. Sutemi, however, does not appears to be fazed in the slightest.

Yurio shoves Sutemi’s chest with both hands, forcing him backwards half a step. His teeth are bared in rage. “These Olympics are mine to win, asshole, and _no_ one is going to take that gold from me, especially someone as pathetic as you. Your jumps have always been shit. They will always _be_ shit.” He jabs a finger at Yuuri, who flinches away. “You can’t hide behind the fat piggy’s step sequences this year—”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

In an instant, the temperature of the elevator plunges to near-frigid and Sutemi tenses, the muscles in his broad shoulders bunching dangerously beneath his Team Japan jacket. He takes a menacing half-step toward Yurio and looks down his nose at him. His eyes are sharper than obsidian beneath thick, low-set brows.

“I’m sorry,” Sutemi says, not sounding sorry at all. He tilts his head to one side in question, lips thin over his teeth, and his next words are slow. “ _What_ did you just call him?”

Yurio opens his mouth to reply. Viktor stops him with a firm grip around his elbow.

“Yurio,” he murmurs in warning. “Don’t—“

“I called him a fat pig,” Yurio says anyway, and Viktor has to fight back the string of curse words that threatens to spill from his mouth. Yurio shoves Viktor’s hand away and looks up at Sutemi with a fierce glare that would be very intimidating, were Sutemi not six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. “Because that’s what he _is_. He’s a coward who screwed up his own career and an asshole who—“

“That’s enough,” Viktor says firmly, but Yurio doesn’t listen.

“—ruined Viktor’s life and ran away like a little—“

There is a brief, flickering moment of timelessness right before Sutemi’s knuckles make contact with Yurio’s face. Then, everything is chaos.

The sound is sickening, and Viktor lurches forward at the same time Yuuri slams his palm against the button for the ninth floor to stop the elevator. Swears bounce around the small compartment in English, Japanese, and Russian, creating an amalgamation of sound that sends Viktor’s head spinning.

Yurio sways on his feet before collapsing backwards into Viktor’s waiting arms, tripping slightly over his duffel bag in the process. His green eyes are wide as he stares at Sutemi, dumbfounded, and for once, he has nothing smart to say about the situation. Sutemi stands on the other side of the elevator, cradling his hand against his chest and looking just about as stunned as everyone else feels.

Sutemi shakes his head numbly from side to side, his eyes wide with shock. “I didn’t… I mean, I—“

_“Sore wa jūbundesu!”_

The sharp command swivels everyone’s heads toward the man in the corner who looks suspiciously like Yuuri, but it can’t possibly be him because Yuuri is timid and shy and _not terrifying._

Gone are the shaking hands, the frightened eyes, and the slumped shoulders. Yuuri’s body is rigid and his expression resolute; dark eyebrows sit low on his forehead and his eyes are alight with an anger Viktor has only seen twice before in his life. He is no longer little Yuuri, former figure skater and failed Olympian—he is Katsuki Yuuri, coach and mentor, and Viktor—

Viktor doesn’t know him at _all_.

Not for the first time, Viktor wishes he had taken lessons in Japanese all those years ago. He longs to understand the barbed string of syllables that Yuuri spits at Sutemi through clenched teeth. Viktor wants to know what exactly he says that makes the young skater shrink away and drop his gaze to the floor, ears red with searing shame. Sutemi murmurs something under his breath that sounds vaguely apologetic, but Yuuri slices his hand through the air and cuts him off with another astringent sentence that leaves Viktor’s head spinning.

No one says a word as the doors slide open with a soft ding, signaling their arrival at the ninth floor. Yuuri barks another command and Sutemi gathers up his bags and steps out, Yuuri following closely behind with fire in his eyes and a cut-granite set to his jaw.

Yurio and Viktor are pressed against the back of the elevator when Yuuri turns around suddenly in the threshold. For the first time, Yuuri meets Viktor’s eyes unflinchingly.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” Yuuri says quietly, and his voice is so achingly familiar that Viktor’s heart lurches in his chest. Yuuri inclines his head in a small bow. “ _Gomen’nasai_ , Viktor. Please… forgive us.”

And with that, Yuuri steps away, eyes still trained on Viktor with such raw, unchecked remorse that Viktor almost reaches out to stop him—

The door slides shut with a soft scrape of finality that rattles him to his bones. Yuuri is gone.

Viktor and Yurio exhale with fervor as if they’ve been holding their breath throughout the entire exchange—waiting for the other shoe to drop, or the next punch to be thrown, whichever happened to come first. Viktor releases Yurio from the death grip he has on his arm, and Yurio wheels precariously before he stumbles back against the wall. The stunned skater sags heavily against the railing.

“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, pressing the pads of his fingers against his rapidly-swelling eye. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ. I didn’t think he’d actually—“

“Don’t,” is all Viktor manages, practically spitting the word. A breath slips into his lungs; shoulders slumping, he exhales and runs a hand over his face. “You’ve done enough talking for one day, I think.”

“He started it!”

“I don’t _care_ who started it. It’s done now, and there’s nothing else we can do,” Viktor says, turning on his heel. He narrows his eyes down at Yurio and does his best to look menacing and authoritative, but it’s hard to do that with shaking knees and trembling fingers. “You will apologize to Yuuri and Sutemi as soon as we get your face checked out, is that clear?”

“But—“

“I said _is that clear?”_

Yurio opens his mouth to retort, but Viktor shoots him a stern, withering look that has Yurio clamping his mouth shut so quickly that his teeth clack together. With an inaudible grumble, he leans back against the wall and presses the heel of his hand against his eye. The remainder of their elevator ride is spent in terse silence.

Viktor hates every second of it.

 

* * *

 

_(He is eleven years old, and he is not supposed to be scared of anything.)_

* * *

A hiss of pain, the sound thin and sharp like needles. Viktor does his best not to scowl in irritation.

“Jesus, Viktor, are you _trying_ to make it worse?” Yurio snarls. His tone is tinged with discomfort, the sound spearing Viktor’s consciousness with its abnormality.

A long-suffering sigh. “I don’t see how a bag of ice can possibly make it any worse. Now quit whining and come back here before it swells shut.”

“No! Fuck off, old man. Go play nurse somewhere else.”

Viktor lowers his hand to his lap and lets out a long, drawn-out sigh—a worsening habit, he notices—from his place at the foot of the twin bed. The bag of ice crinkles in his hand, a few droplets of frigid water seeping out to dampen his trousers in certain spots, darkening the fabric like scattered stygian constellations. Yurio is pressed against the headboard several feet away with one eye narrowed in derision—the other, unfortunately, is beet-red and quickly swelling shut.

“You can either ice it now or skate half-blind on Friday,” Viktor says lightly. He holds out the bag of ice in Yurio’s direction. “It’s your choice.”

Yurio considers this for several moments, no doubt searching for some way to incorporate the word _fuck_ and _you_ into his response—specifically in that order. Finally, his lips thin and his nose curls in thinly-veiled disgust.

He snatches the ice out of Viktor’s hands. “Fine, whatever. You know, you could at least sound a _little_ bit sorry for me.”

Viktor pushes off the bed and crosses to the large window on the far side of the sparse room—which isn’t all that far, when it comes down to it. The entire room has just enough space for a twin bed, a sleek wardrobe, a nightstand, and a desk with a severely uncomfortable-looking chair pushed haphazardly to one side. The bathroom is just as tiny, if not more so, and Viktor has to consciously make an effort not to bang his knees and elbows against every possible corner in the damned place.

Viktor shrugs, leaning against the wall nearest to the window. As he traces the lacework pattern of sidewalks ten stories below with his exhausted gaze, he says, “If you’re looking for sympathy, Yura, you won’t find it here. You knew what you were doing when you egged him on.”

“Bullshit! I didn’t—“

Viktor glances over his shoulder, mouth thin with displeasure. “Don’t play dumb. You know I don’t appreciate it.”

Yurio stares him down with his good eye, sea-green clashing hideously with the ruddy discoloration that’s finally starting to flower near the bridge of his nose.

After a moment, he lets out a breath and slumps his shoulders.

“Whatever,” he mutters, but the venom has been leeched from his words. A tight grimace. “I just… I got so mad, you know? Couldn’t help it. Seeing Katsudon hiding behind his student like that, like he’s _scared_ of us or something _._ He’s such a coward. Always has been.”

Exhaustion has taken its time creeping into his bones and settling between every joint. Languor greets him like a long-lost friend—one he really doesn’t have time to speak with at the moment, not with Yuuri living and breathing in his own room at the other end of the hallway. The knowledge of his presence is the exact opposite of comforting.

“I told you not to fight my battles for me,” Viktor says quietly.

“Well, if you’re not gonna do it, then who is?” he shoots back. “He ruined his own career, destroyed you, and never even said _sorry._ He just ditched us and never looked back.” A sigh, the nervous shuffle of feet shifting over the top of the comforter. “I always knew he was an idiot, but I never thought he was so fucking heartless. He left like I— like _we_ were nothing to him.”

There is a clawing in Viktor’s throat. He swallows, turning back to the window. “That’s still no excuse to start a fight.”

“Look, I know you’re super old and your memory is starting to go, but Sutemi was the one who hit _me,_ ” Yurio argues fervently. “I’m the innocent bystander here!”

Viktor turns. “That’s not the word I would—“

A sharp, staccato rapping of knuckles against the door to the room freezes them both in place, unspoken words perched precariously on the tip of Viktor’s tongue. The sound echoes throughout the room like a thunderclap, and his mouth suddenly tastes quite sour.

Yurio’s good eye is wide with poorly-disguised consternation. He stares at the door, unblinking. “You don’t think—“

“No,” Viktor whispers, shaking his head.  A million thoughts are flying through his head, each one more unpleasant than the last. “If Yuuri reported the fight, Sutemi would get disqualified, too. There’s no way he would risk that.”

“Then who the hell’s at the door?” he hisses through clenched teeth.

Another shrill knock jolts them back to attention, this one sounding a little more urgent than the last. Both men trade worried glances with one another.  

“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” Viktor says slowly. He rakes a hand through his hair and lets out a long, shallow breath that doesn’t relieve the aching pressure in his chest. Against his better judgment, he approaches the door with slow, measured footsteps.

“Hang on,” he calls out, fumbling with the privacy chain above the knob. Knuckles rap more insistently against the door as he struggles, but he finally manages to slip the end of the chain free of its track, yanking the door wide open.

“What do you—“

And upon seeing Dr. Harper Ingram in the doorway, Viktor chokes on his words.

Her full lips are pursed as she raises one perfectly-plucked eyebrow, looking him up and down with agonizing deliberateness that makes Viktor want to squirm and slam the door in her face in equal measure. He notes a faint dusting of freckles across her tanned, regal cheekbones and the imperceptible crease of a dimple at the side of her mouth that is currently smooth with disuse. Viktor had known that she would be here at the Olympics, of course, lurking somewhere on the sidelines like a specter—watching, waiting, always _there_ —but he never anticipated seeing her in the flesh, standing outside of Yurio’s room with a plastic shopping bag looped around her wrist and an oversized Team Japan jacket on her shoulders. _Yuuri’s_ jacket, he realizes with a sickening lurch.

Not for the first time, Viktor takes a moment to wonder if he’s been cursed. He must be, if this is the way his day is going. There’s simply no other explanation.

“You look taller on TV,” is all she says, like that explains why she’s standing outside his door in _Yuuri’s jacket,_ of all things.

Viktor blinks. His fingers tighten around the edge of the door until he’s worried the wood will splinter. “Um—“

But the American doctor is already looking past his shoulder into the room like she doesn’t care that Viktor’s even there, and he has to tamp down a sudden surge of irritation. She spies Yurio on the bed with the ice pack and lets out a low, impressed whistle.

“Ouch,” she says, wincing sympathetically. “Sutemi told me that he hit you, but he didn’t say where. That looks bad, kid.”

The sudden stiffness in Yurio’s shoulders is visceral. “Fuck off, hag. I’m not a _kid._ ”

Dr. Ingram blinks, but she doesn’t gawk at Yurio’s language—which is a feat in and of itself, really. “Well, if you don’t want my help—“

She takes half a step backwards, as if preparing to leave. Viktor manages to find his voice just in time.

“Help,” he repeats dumbly, freezing her in her tracks. He shakes his head, trying to wrap his mind around her words. “You want to help?”

A shadow crosses her face as her expression shutters into something faintly bitter, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “’Want’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use, but yeah, sure. Whatever floats your boat.” She holds up the plastic sack and bounces its contents noisily, looking pointedly at Yurio. “Look, I can minimize the swelling and help it heal up faster, if you’d like. It’d also probably be a good idea to make sure you don’t have a concussion. I doubt Sutemi hit you that hard, but better safe than sorry, right?”

“Why?” Viktor asks flatly, and she looks up at him like he’s gone a little soft in the head—which he might have, come to think of it. Nothing really seems to be making sense at this point.

She speaks slowly, “Well, last time I checked, concussions aren’t fun to skate with—”

“No, not that,” he says, shaking his head. “Why are you offering to help us if you don’t want to?”

She regards him carefully, her steely gaze boring into his own as she considers her words. Her eyes are closer to the color of the ocean during summertime—warm and worth drowning in, under the right circumstances.

“I’m here for Yuuri,” she says finally, and the words nearly rip the wind from Viktor’s lungs. “He’s pretty shaken up about what happened in that elevator. I knew checking in and helping out your little skater—“ she nods at Yurio, ignoring his squawk of protest at being called _little_ “–would make him feel better about everything. So… here I am. But since you obviously don’t want my help—“

_I’m here for Yuuri._

Her words echo in Viktor’s mind, bouncing around until they become little more than warbled nonsense, discordant syllables lost in the deafening din of _why is this happening to me?_ Logically, Viktor knows that there are only two reasons why Yuuri would send his girlfriend—his extremely attractive, extremely _young_ girlfriend—to check on Yurio: either Yuuri is the cruelest man alive intent on destroying Viktor from the inside out, or he is genuinely concerned for Yurio’s health.

Both are terrifying possibilities.

Concern for Yurio wins out in the end, however, and Viktor steps aside, opening the door a little wider and waving the doctor inside with numb hands that don’t feel like his own. Dr. Ingram’s eyes tighten in displeasure as if she’d been hoping he’d say no, but she swallows after a moment and straightens her shoulders, entering the room with determined steps.

Yurio shoots Viktor a look that is three parts uncertainty and one part sheer disbelief as the woman approaches his bed. She perches on the edge of the comforter with ease, almost like she lives there, or like taking care of black eyes is a daily occurrence for her—which it very well might be.

Abruptly, Dr. Ingram dumps out the small plastic bag in the middle of the bed and begins rifling through all manners of plastic splints, bandages, and brand-new gel ice packs that are limp and inactive in her hands. Viktor closes the door softly, but his fingers remain locked around the brass handle for several moments as he tries to regulate his heartrate to something resembling normal.  

A short burst of laughter bubbles up from Dr. Ingram’s throat as she gets a good look at Yurio, and Viktor turns around to see what’s so funny.

“Well, on the bright side, it looks like Sutemi can take up MMA fighting once he retires from skating,” she says lightly. Her hands dart out to capture Yurio’s jaw and he yelps in protest, but she only leans forward and turns his chin from one side to the other as she assesses the injury. “Damn,” she murmurs. “That’s not going to be pretty tomorrow morning.”

Yurio jerks his face away from her probing fingers and glares. “I don’t need the fucking commentary,” he snaps. “Just fix my face or get out, all right?”

Dr. Ingram’s smile tightens imperceptibly, a chilling detachment taking over her cerulean eyes with frightening ease. Quick as a viper, she snatches up a gel ice pack from the pile of supplies and smacks it against her thigh with more force than necessary. “With a mouth like yours, I’m shocked he only hit you once. You should count yourself lucky.”

Pale eyebrows shoot up in incredulity. “ _Lucky_? He assaulted me—“

“And you provoked him,” she interrupts flatly. She _tsks_ her tongue softly, scooting forward on the bed with the ice pack in hand. “Don’t play that blame game with me, kiddo. I guarantee you won’t win.”

Gingerly, she reaches out to grasp Yurio’s chin and presses the edge of the ice pack against his cheekbone; he hisses and tries to jerk away, but she holds firm, fingers digging into the residual youthful softness of his face.

She sighs softly, shaking her head. “You’re _both_ idiots, as far as I’m concerned. Just be thankful no one else saw the fight happen or else we’d all be in a lot more trouble.” She turns to the side and glances in Viktor’s direction, lips pursed. “Unless you’re planning on reporting this?”

“God, no,” he says, horror gripping his heart in a vice. Viktor sighs and sinks into the desk chair by the window like his knees are no longer capable of supporting his weight. “They’d both get disqualified in half a second. I’m not stupid.”

She hums, pleased with this response, and turns back to Yurio. She slides the ice pack up near his temple. “Good answer.”

Fear niggles at the back of his mind. “Is Yuuri going to—“

She snorts. “No, of course not. Figured that was obvious. He’s pretty upset about what happened, of course, but not enough to get the boys kicked out of the games.”

Viktor nods, letting out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Oh,” is all he says, sinking back into his chair. “That’s a… relief. Thank you.”

Dr. Ingram snorts, waving him off with her free hand. “Hell, don’t thank me. Thank _him_. I’m doing my best to stay out of this as much as I can.” She taps the back of Yurio’s hand and her fingers encircle his wrist, lifting to press his palm against the ice pack on his cheek. She quietly instructs, “Here, hold this—yeah, right there. Good. Now, whatever you do, don’t press it directly against your eye, okay?”

Yurio does as he is bid with minimal grumbling, and Harper takes to digging through the pile of medicine, splints, and bandages. As her hands work, she spears Viktor with a hesitant look through her long, thick lashes. Her blonde hair hangs in a thick curtain around her face, and Viktor watches as she reaches up to tuck a few wayward locks behind her ear.  

“When Yuuri told me we were going to the Olympics, I didn’t think I’d be stuck doing something like this. For you two, of all people,” she says quietly. A small smile curves one side of her lips, and she glances up at Viktor. “But you aren’t acting like the Viktor Nikiforov I watched in the 2018 games. Retirement must’ve been a bitch for someone like you.”

Viktor scowls. “If you’re trying to insult me—“

Harper’s eyes widen and she shakes her head. “What? No, that’s not what I—“ she takes a deep breath to collect herself “Sorry, that sounded bad. You’re just… not what I was expecting. That’s all.”

“Oh?” Viktor asks. He raises an eyebrow. “And what were you expecting, exactly?” _A monster? Perhaps a self-absorbed man who only cares for gold and press coverage?_ He’s sure Yuuri has filled her head with all sorts of tall tales over the years.

Her answer, however, is not at all what he expects.

“I expected someone a little more talkative, for one.” Her fingers close around a small penlight and she tests the bulb several times with her thumb. “The tabloids always said you were a fun little chatterbox. I’ve got to say, so far, you’re not exactly living up to the hype.”

Viktor’s mood darkens. “I could say the same thing about you, Dr. Ingram.”

The words slip out before he can stop them, and he wishes fervently that he could stuff them back in his mouth and swallow the sounds to keep them from being heard. To her credit, Dr. Ingram does not give him the confused, slightly creeped-out look he no doubt deserves for such a comment. Instead, she laughs.

“Oh, so you _do_ know my name,” she chuckles. “I figured you did, seeing as you let me into your room without even asking me to introduce myself. Still, I was worried there for a little bit.” A quiet, satisfied hum escapes from her. “The world-famous Viktor Nikiforov knows my name. I don’t think my little sister would believe me if I told her.”

Viktor sputters wordlessly for a moment. “Of course I know who you are. You’ve been a part of Sutemi’s entourage for years. How could I not know you?”

(Over Dr. Ingram’s shoulder, Yurio gives Viktor a flat, unimpressed look. _You’re an idiot,_ he mouths, and Viktor has half a mind to agree. His incriminating search history is testament enough to that.)

Harper turns back to Yurio brandishing the penlight. She shines it into his good eye, ignoring his squirming, and says, “Well, Yuuri didn’t think you would, for one thing. He said as much before I came over here. Something about how you’re not the observant type—single-minded, you tend to stay in your own circle. Stuff like that.” She waves dismissively over her shoulder. “I’m not saying it as nicely as he did, obviously, but you get the idea. You only notice things when they impact you directly. He says it’s one of your bad habits.”

Her words hit Viktor like a javelin to the chest, and he feels himself deflate in his seat. He is thankful Harper is turned the other way. The dull hurt in his chest quickly turns to vitriol, however, and he clenches his jaw until he’s worried his teeth will shatter.

“I… see. Rest assured, Dr. Ingram, I am not nearly as ignorant and self-centered as Yuuri claims me. Nor am I stupid,” Viktor mutters. He glances out the window to his left; more athletes are starting to arrive at the circle drive on the other end of the village in a parade of red, white, and blue—Americans, maybe? Perhaps the French? He tries to care about the answer and fails.

Harper looks over her shoulder at him and raises an eyebrow, clearly picking up on his bitter inflection. “Hey, I never said it was a bad thing. There’s no need to twist my words.”

But Viktor has played this game before with reporters and talk show hosts for the last four years of his life—their war of words has been waged time and time again, the dance familiar, the responses visceral. Viktor is bulletproof, and he has no intention of losing the battle this time around—not to someone like _her_.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” he says icily, tapping his fingers against the stiff armrests. “I’m certain Yuuri’s opinion of me has been rather skewed for the last few years. He tends to embellish his stories a bit, from what I remember.”

It’s not true. Yuuri never once lied to Viktor—up until he did, but that’s beside the point. It’s only a small exaggeration of the truth.

Dr. Ingram’s shoulders stiffen imperceptibly beneath the oversized Team Japan jacket on her shoulders. Viktor expects her to retort with something sharp, crude, and predictable in defense of her lover—the word leaves an ashy taste in his mouth—but he is _prepared._ Proffered medical assistance or not, Viktor does not like this woman. He does not like her thick, blonde hair, her too-wide smile, her straightforward comments, or the wry tone of voice that shadows every sentence. Dr. Harper Ingram wears congeniality like a mask—Viktor wants to find out how ugly she is underneath.

With a soft click, she turns off her penlight; she murmurs further instructions to Yurio and adjusts the positioning of his ice pack on his swollen cheekbone before she turns back toward Viktor, crossing her ankles and bracing her elbows on her knees. She laces her fingers together beneath her chin; a frown mars her frustratingly-perfect mouth.

“The tabloids never said you were this rude,” is what she says to him, and Viktor almost laughs.

“The tabloids get a lot of things wrong.”

She nods slowly, biting the inside of her cheek. “I suppose. Still, I really hoped they were telling the truth this time. This is a pretty shitty first impression you’re giving me.”

Viktor scoffs. “I’m sure Yuuri ruined my chances of that a long time ago. I won’t lose sleep over it, believe—”

“Mr. Nikiforov, I think you’re under the impression that Yuuri actually talks about you.”  

Pain, Viktor knows, is all relative. In the back of his mind, he knows her words should not crush him so thoroughly, should not obliterate the oxygen in his lungs like someone, somewhere decided to flip a switch without warning him. Viktor’s been telling himself the exact same thing for _years_. Her words should not cut him to the quick like this.

(But it’s one thing to believe that Yuuri has never spared a second thought for Viktor after PyeongChang—it is another thing entirely to hear such a thing from the laconic, irritating mouth of Yuuri’s girlfriend. His _girlfriend,_ Viktor thinks bitterly. As if the universe isn’t cruel enough already.)

Across the room, Harper is frowning at him, teeth worrying at her lip. The set of her eyebrows is almost… disappointed, and Viktor does his best not to care. He struggles to keep the crushing disappointment off his face; he may not get to see past Harper’s mask today, but he’ll be damned if she sees past his own.

He blinks, his death grip on the armrests loosening slightly. His voice is surprisingly steady, quietly questioning. “But you said—“

“I said that Yuuri talked about you right before I came down here,” she points out gently. Her shoulders lift in a noncommittal shrug. “Honestly, other than today, I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard him say your name out loud—and I’ve worked with Yuuri for three years. Believe what you will, Viktor, but he can’t embellish something if he doesn’t say it in the first place.”

Words evaporate, and Viktor stays silent. Humiliation, hot and visceral, burns low in his chest like an ember, and Yurio watches him from behind Harper with a solemn expression that clearly says _I told you so_ , even if he looks vaguely sympathetic about it _._ Viktor drops his gaze to his lap, cowed into silence.

Quietly, Harper uncrosses her legs and slips off the bed to stand up. She begins refilling her bag with the medical items she brought over, placing them inside the sack one by one until only a handful of disposable ice packs are left over; she sets a small nondescript pill bottle and the packs on the bedside table with softly-spoken instructions to Yurio for their use. He nods, his mouth pressed together in a thin line of displeasure as she speaks, but he does not poke and prod at the brittle tension that has befallen the room like weighted cage of spun glass.

The doctor doesn’t say anything to Viktor as she slips out of Yurio’s room. This, at least, is something he can be thankful for.

 

* * *

 

_(He has never liked rollercoasters.)_

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware this is a day late, but I wanted to make sure it was perfect before I put it up. Hope it lived up to the hype! Shit's gon' get real in the next couple chapters.


	9. sacrifice is at the heart of repentance

* * *

 

_February 8, 2018 — PyeongChang, South Korea_

 

_There are approximately six hours left before the start of the team skate event, and Viktor is nowhere to be found._

_Yuuri does his best not to fidget in his seat as he watches the flurry of activity on the ice far below his hiding place in the nosebleed section of the Olympic stands. Skaters clad in the colors of their countries perform gravity-defying jumps without showing any signs of exhaustion, coaches call out corrections in multitudinous languages, and uniform-clad staff members scurry this way and that in preparation for the influx of spectators the evening will bring. A subtle electricity runs beneath the ice, it seems—something that has sparked everyone’s anticipation._

_For the fifth time in ten minutes, Yuuri checks his watch._

_10:37 AM._

_Viktor is officially thirty-seven minutes late._

_Strangely enough, Yuuri does not feel that familiar surge of panic, worry, or fear. His ever-present anxiety does not rear its ugly head and cast long shadows of doubt across his tumultuous mind like it normally would, plunging his once-bright ideals into darkness. Like a sea before a storm, he is calm and unflappable in the precious moments before the first clap of ear-splitting thunder._

_He had expected this, after all._

* * *

 

_February 6, 2022 — Beijing, China_

 

The aftermath of the elevator ride lingers like a dense fog over the lowlands of Yuuri’s thoughts. He is numb from the tips of his fingers to his toes, and his blood is cold and thick like oil in his veins as he tries to match his memories of sounds to actions and actions to explanations _—_ but _god,_ none of it makes any sense.

He doesn’t really remember a lot of what was said between the boys, if he’s being honest. He just remembers how Viktor’s face had gone slack with shock as the doors opened, as well as the way his blue-green eyes had blown wide with something other than willful ignorance for the first time in—well, _forever_. The memory plays on repeat over and over again until Yuuri wants to scream and bury his face in the fluffy pillows on his bed, oxygen be damned.

Viktor truly hasn’t aged a day since PyeongChang; his silver hair is silky and unchanged, and his face is remarkably unlined with the stressors of coaching.  Yuuri’s seen him at competitions a handful of times over the years, of course, but they’ve never been so close to each other before _,_ never so _alone._ The press, with its flashing cameras and nosy questions, has always served as the buffer Yuuri and Viktor never knew they needed until today. Trapped in the confined space of the elevator with their students and residual bitterness—

Unfair. That’s what this is. It’s so very, very _unfair._

The wound is still raw and ragged around the edges thirty minutes after Sutemi is safely in his room across the hall with an ice pack on his knuckles and an earful of Skype-garbled screeching courtesy of Minako-sensei. Harper had been the one to ice and bandage Sutemi’s swollen hand and offer her own two cents on the situation (“Dammit, Sutemi, at least try to control your testosterone next time.”) before she’d dusted her hands off and offered to run down the hall to check on Yurio as well.

Yuuri will never tell her this, but he’d almost cried sloppy, humiliating tears of relief when she suggested it. Once they have a minute to themselves after the Olympics, he swears he will take her out for a nice dinner for her kindness, or perhaps he’ll give her a pre-paid ticket back to Los Angeles so she can visit her family.

Or both. Both would be nice.

Yuuri is pressing his forehead against the cool window of his room and struggling to breathe when Harper finally returns. He turns around at the sound of the door settling back into its frame with a soft _click_ , the familiar whisper-soft report of Harper’s footsteps as she enters the room in slipper-socked feet. She smiles when she sees him, but the corners of her eyes are lined with something Yuuri can’t quite decipher.

“Well?” he asks breathlessly. A knot of something tightens in his belly, threatening to strangle.

Harper sets the plastic bag of supplies on the corner of Yuuri’s neatly-made bed and lets out a soft sigh. “Everything is fine. He’s not going to report it.”

All at once, Yuuri deflates in relief. He braces a hand against the corner of his desk and sags heavily. “Oh my _god_. You’re— you’re sure? He really said that?”

She nods. Crossing the room, she sheds his Team Japan jacket and drapes it over the back of the desk chair near Yuuri’s white-knuckled hand. “Yeah. I don’t think he was lying, either. He looked about as shaken up as you, if you want the truth.”

Yuuri nods, trying to swallow down the thicket of brambles that is suddenly lodged in his throat. “Is Yurio—“

“The kid’s going to be okay,” she says gently. “No concussion, no subconjunctival hemorrhaging. I gave him some ice packs for the night and told him when to use warm compresses tomorrow once the swelling has stopped. It’s going to be one hell of a black eye, but it’ll heal up pretty fast.”

Yuuri leans a hip against the edge of the desk and drops his face into his hands. A sharp, half-hysterical laugh seeps through his fingers. “Th-thank you. God, just… _thank you._ When Sutemi hit him, I was so—“

Harper rests a warm, comforting hand on Yuuri’s tense forearm. She ducks down to meet his gaze through his shaky fingers. “Hey, hey—Yuuri, it’s okay. _Breathe_. Everything is going to be fine. No one is getting sent home, and nobody’s severely injured. I consider that a victory in my book.”

Yuuri nods numbly. His mouth is dry as sandpaper, and his nerves are frayed. Dropping his hands from his face, he looks at Harper— _really_ looks at her—and takes a chance.

He reaches out and wraps his arms around her waist, fingers bunching in the fabric of her soft t-shirt as he hugs her. Harper stiffens at the contact, and Yuuri almost pulls away—but suddenly she’s _there_ , hugging him back with equal voracity and rubbing soothing circles in the middle of his back just like his mother used to do when he was little.

He has never hugged Harper before. As he holds her and shuffles a little closer, leaning into her comforting touch, Yuuri silently wonders why he didn’t start doing this a long, long time ago. She fits nicely against him, even if it’s a little different than what he’s used to, and her body is soft and pliant beneath his hands in the most fascinating way.

Swallowing thickly, he buries his face in her shoulder and mumbles, “You didn’t have to go down there, but you did it anyway.” Harper’s blonde hair tickles his nose, flooding his senses with the scent of crisp jasmine leaves and something floral that isn’t unpleasant in the slightest. “I… I don’t know how to thank you. Tell me what I can do. Please.”

She squeezes him a little tighter, and her fingers settle in the dip of his lower back, fingers tracing idly up and down the valley of his spine. When she speaks, her voice is soft, almost reverent. “Oh, Yuuri. You don’t have to do anything. This is more than enough, believe me.”

He doesn’t believe her at all, and mentally makes a note to buy her coffee tomorrow as soon as he wakes up for breakfast. She’s a late sleeper, so he should have plenty of time to catch her before practice—probably.

When they separate, Harper clears her throat and takes an awkward step away from Yuuri, one hand rubbing the back of her neck; her gaze is trained on her garish orange-and-purple fuzzy socks and her cheeks are tinged faintly pink. Yuuri worries that his own face is flushed and blotchy, so he whirls back to the window to hide with a light cough.

“So,” he begins, cursing the squeak in his voice. He clears his throat. “Uh… did everything else go all right?”

She hums distractedly. “Yeah, it was fine.”

“Yurio wasn’t too mean to you, was he? I imagine he wasn’t in the best mood.”

Harper comes to stand next to him at the window, eyes narrowed as she squints at the Beijing skyline in the distance. She shrugs. “He said a few nasty things at first, but I handled it. It’s hard to complain when half your face is swollen like a grapefruit.”

Yuuri hums, nodding. His cheeks are still tingling with embarrassment. “Well, I’m glad he didn’t give you too much trouble. He hates it when people try to take care of him.”

“He had a choice to either let me help him or to insult me. I think vanity won that little argument.” Harper glances sidelong at Yuuri with a raised eyebrow. “I know I’ve seen him at competitions before, but I didn’t know he was so…”

“Abrasive?” Yuuri supplies.

“I was going to go with obnoxious, but yeah, sure. Abrasive sounds a lot better.”

He shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels absentmindedly. “Yurio’s a good kid once you get to know him. He just… speaks a different language than the rest of us, I guess. It takes time.”

Harper’s eyebrows crease in a displeased frown. “Well, I think he’s rude. And I think Viktor is a lousy coach for letting him behave like that in the first place. Honestly, has anyone ever bothered to teach the kid some manners?”

“He’s not Yurio’s father,” he points out.

“And you’re not Sutemi’s, but you manage to keep him in line. You care about him too much to let him behave like that little Russian monster.” She pauses. “Not that he would, of course. You know what I’m trying to say.”

He does, but he doesn’t know how to feel about being compared to Sutemi’s father. The feeling sits uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach like an iron weight. Swallowing, he decides to let it drop and begins to pick a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve. “Did, ah— did Viktor say anything to you while you were there? About me, I mean.”

It’s a selfish question, one he doesn’t truly want answered, but he can’t help himself. Viktor had hardly even looked at him in the elevator, and though Yuuri will never admit it—that had _hurt._ Like forcing a splinter deeper into the tender flesh of his heart, seeing Viktor’s indifference up close had been excruciating.

In the past, Viktor had always made sure to keep his distance from Yuuri at competitions. The only time they were in the same room together was during the interviews after the medal ceremonies, and even then Viktor always made sure to stand on the opposite side of the room from Yuuri, separated by no fewer than fifty reporters and a sea of uncomfortable metal folding chairs. His message had always been crystal clear: _stay away from me._ And Yuuri had been more than happy to comply.

But now that he’s seen first-hand how impassive and frosty Viktor’s eyes had been upon stepping inside that elevator, Yuuri wants— _needs_ —to know.

_Does he really hate me?_

Harper doesn’t respond at first, and her silence makes Yuuri’s heart pound in his chest. He chances a sidelong glance in her direction; she’s frowning down at the floor, jaw clenching and unclenching as she thinks.

Finally, she looks up at him and offers a small, strained smile. “No,” she says. “He didn’t really say anything at all, actually.”

Yuuri can’t help the wave of disappointment that chokes him. “Oh. I— right. Of course.”

And somehow, knowing that Viktor doesn’t care is infinitely worse than knowing that Viktor hates him.

He shouldn’t have asked.

_He should not have asked._

 

* * *

 

“Sutemi did _what?”_

Phichit’s voice is shrill as it echoes around the empty Olympic ice rink. Leo and Guang Hong have come to a dead stop in the middle of their bracket turns to stare at Yuuri with open mouths and shell-shocked expressions. Yuuri clears his throat and fights the urge to fidget, suddenly very thankful that Guang Hong hadn’t turned on all the lights in the arena when they sneaked in; his face is on _fire_.

Hesitantly, he repeats himself. “He, uh… punched Yurio?”

For several seconds, none of them move. Guang Hong and Leo look flabbergasted, frozen just as stiffly as the ice beneath their skates, and Phichit is—

Oh. Phichit is hugging him.

His best friend skates into him full-force and both of them slide backward several feet, carried by Phichit’s supersonic momentum. Yuuri struggles for the air his lungs can’t seem to hold against the crushing pressure of Phichit’s embrace. For such a wire-thin skater, he is _strong._

“This is the greatest day of my entire life,” Phichit whispers in an awestruck tone. “First I get to hang out with my best friends in the whole wide world, which is cool enough on its own. Then you straight-up tell me that your student—who is officially one of my _new_ best friends, by the way, so make sure to tell him that—punched Yuri Plisetsky in the _face_!” It might be a trick of the light, but Phichit’s eyes appear to be glistening with unshed tears. He sniffs, and crushes Yuuri in another hug. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.”

“Uh,” Yuuri wheezes eloquently. He pats Phichit awkwardly on the back and does his best to wriggle out of the too-tight embrace. “You’re welcome, I guess?”

“Did you get pictures?” Leo calls out, executing a change-foot spin to face him. “I know some people who would pay cash money to see some evidence of that punk getting his due. He’s had it coming for years.” He sighs dreamily, mouth curving into a ghost of a satisfied smile. “God, it must have been _awesome_ to watch. I’m so jealous.”

Yuuri considers telling him how entirely not-awesome the entire experience was, but Guang Hong nods eagerly in agreement and says, “Me too. Honestly, I’m surprised no one’s punched him before today. He’s been a special kind of awful this season. You should’ve seen the way he acted at Skate America.”

Phichit finally releases him, and Yuuri shifts uncomfortably in his skates as Leo and Guang Hong proceed to expound lengthy tales of _Yurio’s an asshole and here’s why I think so_ , both of them trying to one-up each other as the clock ticks far too slowly for Yuuri’s liking. He feels the urge to defend Yurio even though he has no right, nor a good reason to do so. Yurio had said some truly awful things about him in that elevator, after all.

(Awful, _true_ things. Yuuri tries not to think about it.)

Yuuri clears his throat to get Leo and Guang Hong’s attention, stopping them mid-sentence. His cheeks feel hot. “C-come on, guys,” he implores half-heartedly. “Yurio’s not _that_ bad. He’s just… got a few attitude problems. Some rough edges. That’s all.”

Guang Hong huffs incredulously. “Says the guy who hasn’t had to skate against him in four years.”

“I’ve seen Yurio at competitions! It’s not like I dropped off the map after I retired.”

Leo clucks his tongue, shaking his head. “Eh, still doesn’t really count. You never talked to him unless you had to. We’ve had to listen to his trash talk since you ditched, and it has not been fun, let me tell you.”

Yuuri looks to Phichit for help, but the Thai skater has his arms crossed over his chest, nodding slowly. He smiles sympathetically at Yuuri. “Yeah, no offense, dude, but we’ve been fighting Plisetsky for the top of the podium for a while. I’m with Guang Hong and Leo on this one. He had it coming.”

Memories of warm, buttery piroshkies and brisk mornings at the St. Petersburg rink suddenly come to the forefront of his mind, unbidden. He recalls sitting behind fifteen year-old Yurio in the rink’s musty locker room with a hair elastic snagged between Yuuri’s teeth and his fingers tangled in the boy’s flaxen hair, attempting to braid it into something semi-presentable for their lessons with Ms. Baranovskaya. He remembers watching Viktor’s practices from the sidelines with Yurio, playing tic-tac-toe in companionable silence until one of them became distracted enough to lose.

It’s hard to reconcile the Yurio of four years ago with the willowy, hateful man he’d met in the elevator that morning—but it’s not impossible.

On Yuuri’s left, Guang Hong’s eyes light up and he turns to face him. “Hey, if you don’t have pictures, a video would also work.” His eyebrows furrow, and a thoughtful pause. “Actually, I would _prefer_ a video. Please tell me you have one.”

Yuuri shakes his head. He skates backwards across the ice, eyes trained on his toes as he pulls into a lazy circle around Guang Hong and Leo. “There’s no video, sorry. And as of right now, you guys are the only ones in the whole village who know about what happened aside from Harper. I want to keep it that way if I can.” He makes pointed eye contact with each of them as he passes by, eyes narrowed. “Nothing leaves this rink. Got it?”

Phichit holds up his hands in surrender. “My lips are sealed, Yuuri-kun. Pinky promise.”

But Yuuri spies the touchscreen pad on the index finger of his gloves and he jabs an accusatory finger in his direction. “No posting this to Instagram, either. _Or_ Twitter.”

Phichit simply rolls his eyes. “Come on, you know me better than that. I wouldn’t get Sutemi kicked out of the games just to gain a couple thousand followers.” But Leo lets out an incredulous snort, and Phichit shoots him a withering look. “Oh, whatever. I’m not _that_ desperate for attention.”

“No, it’s fine. I believe you,” Yuuri murmurs. He worries at his bottom lip as he leans into an inner spread eagle, tilting his head back toward the impossibly high ceiling above them. Sighing quietly, he finishes, “Sorry. I know I’m being paranoid about this. I just really don’t want it to get out, you know? Sutemi’s worked hard to get here.”

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us,” Guang Hong assures him, pushing forward to skate side-by-side with Yuuri. Leo and Phichit join on either side until they are four abreast; they execute lackadaisical laps around the ice, perfectly content to communicate through the soft scraping sounds of their blades.

And despite everything, Yuuri _enjoys_ himself. He listens avidly to Leo’s tales of training in Colorado, nods along to Guang Hong’s gesture-laden recollections of the NHK Trophy and the Rostelecom Cup, and offers belated congratulations to Phichit on his gold medal at Nationals. They catch up on each other’s lives like they’d never left in the first place, slipping into old habits and referencing inside jokes from years past as they skate.

They’re on lap six when Phichit looks at Yuuri with a question in his eyes. There is a crease between his brows, barely hidden by his hair and the dim lighting of the rink.

“Hey, are you… you know, okay?” he asks hesitantly.

Guang Hong and Leo imperceptibly lean in closer as if they’re anticipating his answer, eyes wide with feigned innocence.

Yuuri frowns. “Of course I am. I’m not the one who got punched.”

On Yuuri’s left, Leo snorts and shakes his head. “Dude, that’s totally not what he was asking.”

Phichit bites the inside of his cheek and sticks his hands in his pockets as they round the far end of the rink. His gaze is warm and sympathetic as he regards Yuuri. “I was just wondering how you’re doing. With, uh… you know, Viktor. Being here.” A pause, and he grimaces as if the words taste sour in his own mouth. “And I _know_ you hate it when I ask, but as your Best Friend in the Entire World, I think it’s my job to ask at least once.”

Words catch in Yuuri’s throat as he tries to formulate an answer, and he glides across the ice on numb feet. It’s a good question, to be fair—he just doesn’t really have an answer. Seeing Viktor in that elevator had been fifteen types of terrible. Even thinking about the fact that he’s staying only a handful of doors down the hall from Yuuri makes his chest tight and uncomfortable.

Objectively, he knows he’s not okay, but he can’t tell _them_ that.

So Yuuri nods and tries for some facsimile of a smile. “I’m fine,” he lies easily. “Really, you don’t need to worry about me. I can handle Viktor.”

Phichit lets out a disbelieving huff. “That’s Yuuri-speak for ‘ _I’m five seconds away from an emotional breakdown_.’ Don’t even try to lie to me.” He skates closer to Yuuri and nudges his shoulder, head inclined forward to catch his gaze, which he holds tentatively. “You don’t have to be fine for our sakes, Yuuri. Especially not mine. If you’re not okay, we want to know so we can help.”

“Yeah,” Guang Hong agrees. “If you want, I could push Nikiforov down some stairs or something.”

“And I could short-sheet his bed,” Leo offers.

Yuuri casts a sidelong glance at Leo and Guang Hong; both of them are smiling sympathetically in his direction. Phichit’s expression, on the other hand, is strangely solemn. Out of the three of them, Phichit is the only one who knows what actually happened that night in PyeongChang—not the tabloid’s rendition of _he said, he said_ that circulated on social media for months after the fact.

If he were stronger, Yuuri could tell him how gut-wrenchingly painful it had been to share an elevator with Viktor, how agonizing it was to see the cold indifference reflected in the glacial eyes that Yuuri used to drown in on a daily basis. But he just can’t bring himself to give Phichit part of his burden. Phichit needs to focus on competing, and so do Guang Hong and Leo. Yuuri is selfish, but he’s not _that_ selfish—or, at least, he tries not to be.

So instead Yuuri smiles, and it almost feels real.

“I know, Phichit,” he says, patting him on the shoulder. “But really, I’m okay. The entire elevator ride was sort of a blur anyway.”

(It wasn’t. It really wasn’t.)

  

* * *

 

_February 15, 2018 — PyeongChang, South Korea_

_“You should’ve won tonight.”_

_The words hang heavily in the air._

_Viktor lets out a shuddering breath. Yuuri isn’t breathing at all._

_“You threw the competition,” Viktor exhales, eyes widening in horrified comprehension. “Oh my god. That’s why—“_

_“No.” Yuuri shakes his head, swiping away the tears on his cheeks with his sleeve. “No, I didn’t. I wasn’t prepared in the first place. I never stood a chance.”_

_“But we trained—“_

_“_ You _trained!” he cries out. Yuuri tugs on the ends of his hair in frustration and sags against the doorway. “You trained,” he repeats weakly._

_Viktor’s expression is shattered, broken into a thousand different pieces. Yuuri drops his gaze. He can’t—_

_He just can’t._

_Yuuri swallows down the knot in his throat and clutches the front of his shirt in his fist, crumpling the fabric. “I… I knew it was never going to work, even before we moved in together.” Hot tears slip down his cheeks, one after another. Yuuri shakes his head, squeezing his eyes closed. “We were so stupid, Vitya. I’m so s-sorry, god, I’m_ sorry— _”_

_“Don’t,” he bites out, taking a step forward. His hands reach out to cup Yuuri’s face, thumbs tracing shaky circles against his cheekbones, and up close, Yuuri can see the way his eyelashes seem to glow in the moonlight. “Please, don’t apologize. Don’t say anything. Just— just let me fix this. Yuuri, I’m begging you._ Please.” _His voice is a broken shadow of a whisper._

_But Yuuri only lets out a shuddering half-sob and pulls away from Viktor’s warm, familiar hands._

_“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t do it. I won’t let you ruin yourself for me, not like this.”_

_imsorryimsorryimsosorry_

 

* * *

 

_February 7, 2022 —_ _Beijing, China_

 

By some miracle, the sun sets in Beijing and rises once again in the morning, promising a new day—one that hopefully does not involve any more punching or hurled insults. Still, Yuuri is a realist if nothing else, so he’s not going to hold his breath. Just in case.

He rises with the pale light of dawn, grumbling something under his breath about early birds and worms, and manages to stumble into the shower with a sleepy sigh. The water is cold as it sluices down his back, effectively waking him up and thrusting his focus back on the day that lies before him.

First up is breakfast. The cafeteria is only a short distance from the building, and the coffee shop is along the way, so he should have time to grab a latte for Harper before he heads over to eat with Sutemi. After that, Sutemi is scheduled to practice at the Olympic rink until noon. Off-ice practice will fall after lunchtime until four, interviews will take place from four until six, and then dinner will cap off the night. It’s a neat, tidy schedule that leaves very little room for socializing with the other athletes—Viktor especially. Yuuri couldn’t be happier.

He’s almost giddy as he towels off and slips into a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He rakes his fingers through his hair—a poor substitute for a comb, but he forces himself not to care as he shoves his glasses on his face, grabs his jacket and his skates, and slings his duffel bag over his shoulder. He tells himself that taking the time to style his hair implies that he has someone to impress, and he refuses to give Viktor the satisfaction.

Maybe it’s petty. Maybe he’s overthinking this. Maybe he’s fooling himself—

_No._ He has no intention of letting Viktor have the upper hand here; not here, not _again_. If Viktor’s is intent on pretending that he doesn’t exist, Yuuri will be more than happy to return the favor.

He leaves the room with his ID badge around his neck and his Team Japan jacket zipped up tightly to fend off the February cold. A knock on Sutemi’s door yields no response. He must already be eating breakfast. Yuuri spares a glance down the hallway in the direction of the elevators—

He takes the stairs.

The lobby is bustling with activity when he pushes through the heavy door on the ground floor. Athletes and coaches all wearing multicolored jackets and knitted hats with flags on them mill about the lobby with bags, skis, and snowboards, and the din of overlapping voices is deafening. Outside the doors, things aren’t much better. It seems like the rest of the world has arrived at the village for the opening ceremony tomorrow night, and the village staff is floundering as they work to get everyone settled.

Yuuri manages to slip through the throngs of people without being noticed, and he doesn’t spot any familiar faces on his way to the artisan-style coffee shop. He stands in line for far too long, pays way too much money for a latte that burns his hand through the cup, and returns to his building through a back entrance that isn’t flooded with athletes who are no less than two heads taller than him. It’s almost a relief to enter the stairwell and trudge back up to the tenth floor.

He knocks on Harper’s door, red-faced and out of breath with his fingers stinging from the blistering heat of the latte. He waits for ten pounding heartbeats and reaches up to knock again, but the jingle of a lock chain being loosed alerts him milliseconds before the door swings inward.

Harper is standing in the threshold with her hair loose and tangled around her shoulders, a thin black knee-length robe tied around her waist and mismatched socks on her feet. She yawns widely.

“I thought practice was at nine?” she asks, stretching her arms above her head. Her eyes are sleep-shadowed and bleary, and there are wrinkles pressed into her face from her sheets.

Yuuri swallows and drops his gaze to her socks—pale blue for the left one, yellow and black for the right. “Oh, uh—” he stammers, face heating with embarrassment. Suddenly, he feels rather terrible for waking her up so early. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’ll let you—“

“Yuuri,” she says, stopping him. Her smile is warm, and she leans a shoulder against the doorframe casually. “Come on, you know you couldn’t bother me if you tried. What do you need?”

He hesitates. Would it be better to let her go back to sleep?

In the end, he goes with his gut and thrusts the latte in her direction. “I got this for you.”

She stares at it for a moment, her face mysteriously blank. Tentatively, she reaches out and takes it; their fingers brush in the interchange, and Yuuri does his best not to throw up his nerves all over the carpet at her feet.

Harper cracks a small, pleased smile as she inhales the rich scent of espresso. “No flavor?”

He shakes his head. “Made with almond milk, half-caffeinated. That’s the way you like it, right?”

She smiles. “You spoil me, Katsuki.”

Yuuri lets out a nervous laugh and wraps his fingers around the strap of his duffel bag like it’s the only thing anchoring him to his sanity—which it very well might be. “Consider it a small thank-you gift for yesterday.”

“I said you didn’t have to do anything for me.”

“I know,” he says. He squares his shoulders. “But I wanted to. You’re always going out of your way to make my life a little easier, and I don’t thank you enough for it.”

Her eyes are softer than summer rain, and she clutches the coffee with both hands as she looks up at him with a strange mixture of curiosity and fondness that makes Yuuri feel like he’s having a minor panic attack—or perhaps just a severe case of heartburn. He fidgets, suddenly feeling two sizes too small for his own skin.

Before he can mutter an excuse and turn back toward the stairwell, however, Harper places a hand on his shoulder and rolls up onto her tiptoes to drop a quick kiss on his cheek. Yuuri’s heart jumps into his throat and his ears burn at the lingering barely-there brush of lips.

The tug in his heart is _painful_.

It’s—

It’s not supposed to feel that way, is it? Yuuri can’t remember; it’s been so long.

Harper pulls away from him before he has time to figure it out. She sinks back down onto her feet, teeth worrying at her lower lip, and she winces, noticing his stiff posture. Her cheeks are dusted with a faint pink stain that Yuuri’s not used to seeing.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

The sound of a door slamming closed stops her sentence dead.

Yuuri’s blood doesn’t have time to run cold before he notices Viktor standing in the hallway, one hand clenched around the doorknob to his room so hard his knuckles are blanched white. His jaw is as set as chiseled marble, lips thin with thinly-veiled derision. His arctic gaze flicks between Harper and Yuuri almost accusatorily.

Yuuri can’t help it; he takes a half step backward, distancing himself from Harper as much as he can in the narrow hallway. He is suddenly very aware of the thin material of her robe and the way the front gapes ever so slightly to display the tanned gleam of a prominent collarbone. The pain in his chest is sharp, tearing, _exquisite_ —

And then Viktor turns on his heel and walks in the opposite direction toward the elevators. The whisper-soft padding of his footsteps is the only proof Yuuri has that he’s there at all, that this isn’t some horrifying nightmare he’s yet to awaken from.

_Wake up. Wake up. Wake up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit short, but this one was giving me trouble for a long, long while. Writing angst like this 24/7 is killing me on the inside, if you can't tell. If you want a look at what I've been doing to make myself happy in the meantime, head over to my profile and check out "The Properties of Bentonite." It's a oneshot about Yuuri as an art teacher, and it brought my happiness back to life a little bit. 
> 
> Not sure when the next chapter will be up. March is a hectic month for me this year. I might need to drop to bi-weekly updates just for the sake of my sanity.


	10. I feel like the word shatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll are too sweet. Thanks for being patient.
> 
> Lotta flashbacks in this one. You guys seem to like those, and I like writing them. Final filler chapter!

* * *

 

He sees it in crisp black and white, all harsh edges and sharp contrast. And no matter what he does, he can’t _stop_ seeing it.

Viktor hits the button for the lobby with more force than necessary and sinks against the back wall of the elevator as the doors slide closed behind him, effectively locking him away from the rest of the world, trapping him with a discordant _ding_. His fingers rake through his hair and he pulls hard, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes to blot away the afterimages of Harper’s rose-petal lips against the smooth skin of Yuuri’s cheek.

Four years have passed them by like the trickle of sand in an hourglass much too large for any one man to overturn by himself. Since PyeongChang, Viktor has watched Yuuri from afar—wanting, yearning, silently asking all the questions he never got an answers for—but never before has Viktor felt this explicit rawness, this vein of unadulterated hurt that cuts him to the quick so viciously.

He hates Harper. He doesn’t care if she does volunteer outreach with impoverished children in Africa or sorts her plastics, glass, and paper like a responsible citizen—Viktor _hates_ her, and that’s just all there is to it.

The doors slide apart, and Viktor is moving before he can wallow any further. He tamps his anger down like a screen door in a windstorm and slithers through the crowd of athletes and coaches, avoiding stray elbows as he makes his way toward the main door. Maybe if he goes outside, he’ll be able to breathe more easily.

It doesn’t work. He feels the sunshine warm his face, the cold February breeze ruffling his hair and flooding his lungs with oxygen that makes them feel two sizes too big for the trappings of his ribcage. The pressure in his chest is excruciating. Inexorable. Unforgiving.

As Viktor storms across the village, hands curled into fists in the pockets of his jacket, he wonders what it would be like to push Harper down a flight of stairs. Maybe even two.

The cafeteria is bustling with activity when he arrives, but he picks Yurio out of the crowd easily enough; the skater is sitting at the table nearest to the door with his leopard-print hoodie drawn up around his face, shadowing his black eye from the rest of the world. Otabek is next to him, shoulders brushing in their trademark _we’re-not-subtle-but-we-think-we-are_ sort of way. Mila is sitting at the other end of the lengthy table next to the Crispino siblings and the rest of Team Italy, laughing about something Viktor doesn’t really care about.

Viktor plops down across from Yurio and Otabek and immediately drops his forehead to the surface of the table with a _thunk_. Yurio peers up at his coach through his loose fringe of hair.

“Morning,” he mutters, and goes back to stirring his oatmeal like it has personally offended him.

Viktor lets out a pitiful moan that vibrates his teeth. “Yurio, if I asked you to fire me and send me home, would you do it?”

“Yep.” He pops the _p_ like bubblegum.

Viktor blinks. “Really?”

“No, you idiot. Yakov would kill me.” Rolling his eyes, he spears some sliced strawberries and pops them in his mouth, chewing noisily. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it, though.”

“Oh,” Viktor says glumly. His shoulders slump more steeply. “So you’re telling me I’m stuck here until the games are over, then.”

Silence. Viktor glances up; Yurio is staring at him like another head has sprouted from his shoulders. Even Otabek looks faintly confused at the turn of conversation—or maybe his grapes are a little bit sour.

Yurio drops his spoon into his oatmeal with a soft squelch.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demands hotly. “You usually aren’t this neurotic until lunchtime.”

But Viktor waves him off and shakes his head. “Nothing, nothing. Never mind. Forget I said anything.” Bracing his elbows against the table, he leans forward and squints up at Yurio’s half-shadowed face. “Your face looks better than I thought it would.”

It comes out sounding almost like a question, his meaning masked convincingly in harsh phonetics: _please change the subject?_

Yurio gives him a flat look from the other side of the table that screams _why-are-you-like-this-oh-my-god._ Viktor wishes he knew the answer.

Thankfully, Yurio takes Viktor’s cues and drops the line of conversation, glaring instead. It’s only half-successful, considering his left eye is still swollen and stained the color of an overripe pomegranate. He points to it. “I still have a _black eye_ , Viktor. Quit acting like there’s a bright side to any of this.”

Otabek clenches his jaw and fiddles with his fork, pushing his eggs around his plate mindlessly. “I think you should—“

“No,” Yurio says quietly. His voice is softer around the edges when he speaks to Otabek. “I want to beat Okukawa on the ice next week in singles. That’s the only kind of revenge I want—even if punching him in his stupid face would be rewarding as hell.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that,” he murmurs. “I just think you should report him, get him disqualified. He _hit_ you, Yura.”

“Yeah, and I instigated the fight. We’d _both_ get punished. I don’t want to risk it.” Yurio shakes his head from side to side, loose locks of hair swinging in front of his face. “I’m not gonna do it, Beka. Quit asking.”

Otabek opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but a sharp look from Yurio stops him short. He nods curtly in response, turning back to his breakfast like he can find the answer to all of little Yura’s problems in the depths of his cup of low-fat yogurt—blueberry, it looks like.

Yurio clears his throat and absentmindedly touches the beet-red splotch beneath his eye, fingers tracing the outline of the bruise where it has flowered over his cheekbone. He looks at Viktor. “So, what’s got your panties in a twist, anyway?” he asks lightly. “You only ask me to fire you when you’re really upset about something. Did you forget your Gucci shoes in Russia?”

“God, I wish,” Viktor mutters, pressing his hands against his eyes. He peers through his fingers. “And they’re Givenchy _,_ not Gucci.”

“Oh for the love of— like it even _matters_ ,” he says exasperatedly, throwing his hands up in the air. He turns his attention back to his cold oatmeal. “Whatever it is, either tell me or don’t. I need you to start acting like a normal human being before practice.”

“I’m fine, really. It’s nothing.” Which is probably the worst thing he could’ve come up with, seeing as Viktor is a shitty liar and Yuri’s known him way too long to fall for that sort of thing.

Yurio gives him a narrow look of doubt. Viktor sweats. Otabek stares into his yogurt.

After a few seconds of suspicious scrutiny, Yurio’s face relaxes into a soft expression of minor annoyance. “Fine, have it your way,” he says, and drops the subject. He holds out his spoon. “Want the rest of my oatmeal? I’m full.”

The utensil gleams in the overhead lights of the cafeteria. A shiny, metal olive branch. It isn’t much, but it’s something—and at this point, Viktor will take what he can get.

Viktor accepts the spoon with a grateful smile. They all finish their respective breakfasts in silence.

 

* * *

 

_(We lived, as usual, by ignoring. Ignoring isn’t the same as ignorance, you have to work at it.)_

 

* * *

 

_July 14, 2018 — five months after the PyeongChang Olympics_

 

_Viktor hates his apartment._

_Like a glove fitted over the wrong hand, his flat does not suit his needs. He hates the hard, flat surfaces and sharp metal edges of the kitchen, the open living room that’s built to fit the family Viktor doesn’t and never will have, the smudged glass panels that are supposed to look modern but are just annoying and hard to see when he’s really, really drunk—which is most of the time, these days._

_But most importantly, Viktor’s apartment has a giant Yuuri-shaped hole in the center of it, and it’s getting impossible for him not to notice it._

_Viktor sees the empty side of the wardrobe where Yuuri’s clothes used to hang, still unused after all these months. He sees the empty side of the bed and the nightstand where Yuuri used to place his blue-framed glasses every night, the exact spot where he would set his mandatory glass of water on its perfunctory coaster just in case he got thirsty before dawn and didn’t want to risk waking Viktor up._

_No matter what Viktor does, he can’t un-see these things. Yuuri’s absence is a yawning, endless black hole in the middle of his flat, ripping, pulling,_ squeezing _Viktor until he bursts. The entire apartment is a vacuum, stretching him past his limits._

_When summer finally dawns and Viktor chooses not to renew his lease, nobody questions it. He moves out in July and finds a little place downtown that’s within walking distance of the rink and a stone’s throw away from a bakery. It’s supposed to help._

_(It doesn’t.)_

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Viktor and Yurio arrive at the Olympic rink to practice, and Viktor tries not to let his heart drop into his stomach when he sees Yuuri with blades on his feet, spinning across the ice like he never retired in the first place.

He freezes in place at the edge of the rink with Yurio, fingers gripping the strap of his duffel bag until he’s sure the skin will split over his knuckles. ‘ _Unfair’_ is all he thinks. It’s like glass shattering or wood splintering as he watches in rapt attention; hairline fractures manifest on the surface of Viktor’s heart by the thousands, too thin and too numerous to count.

At his side, Yurio is strangely quiet as he surveys the bustling rink. The two Japanese athletes skate circles around the others like they’re not even there. Viktor notices the tension in Yurio’s shoulders; he’s paying attention.

Viktor’s eyes return to the back of Yuuri’s Team Japan jacket as he shadows his student in what appears to be Sutemi’s exhibition skate. The two skaters weave in and out of the other athletes on the ice, staying within inches of one another like ice dancers, trapped in each other’s orbit. The display is so transfixing that even some of the other athletes and coaches have stopped to watch them.

As the two skaters round the closest end of the rink, Viktor sees Yuuri’s lips moving and his arm shoots out during a lunge to correct the angle of Sutemi’s chin, angling it higher toward the ceiling. Their Japanese exchange is lost in the din of the arena, but Sutemi grins and Yuuri’s laughter is unmistakable.

They come around for a jump, edging close to where Viktor and Yurio stand. Sutemi tucks up and in for a quad flip—

“Fuck,” Yurio spits vehemently. “ _Fuck._ ”

For once, Viktor couldn’t agree more. The flip is beautiful, flawless—even better than Viktor’s ever was. Better than _Yurio’s._

Fuck, indeed.

Yuuri doesn’t do the jump with his student, but he is there when Sutemi lands, slipping in behind the young skater like his shadow with a glowing smile on his face. He is murmuring something into Sutemi’s ear as they execute a brief spread eagle on the outside edge of their blades, and Sutemi nods sharply as he goes into a spin. Yuuri skates out of the way, arms crossed over his chest to watch from a safe distance.

And suddenly Yuuri is looking straight at him, and Viktor’s heart freezes over in his chest.

Somewhere on the ice, Sutemi is spinning. Viktor _knows_ this. Sutemi’s probably doing a good job of it, too, and as a coach, Viktor should be watching for weaknesses so he can help Yurio exploit them next week in the singles event.

But he cannot, for the life of him, bring himself to watch anything other than the way Yuuri’s cheeks flush crimson when their eyes meet, his eyes widening imperceptibly.

His soft lips part in shock. He mouths something.

_Vikutoru._

(Viktor is twenty-seven. He is twenty-seven and invincible and loved, so very, very loved by a boy he doesn’t deserve and never will, not in this lifetime or the next. He feels at home in a strange place surrounded by people who speak a strange language, somewhere by the sea with the gulls overhead and ice beneath his blades. He is happy. He is _whole.)_

A shout. Yuuri’s head snaps to the side, and Sutemi comes out of his spin. Viktor feels lightheaded.

Dr. Ingram is standing by the entrance of the rink with a hot pink foam roller in her hand. She waves it in the air to beckon them over, shouting something that echoes too much for Viktor to understand at this distance. Her smile is sweet and irritating and—

And Viktor really, _really_ hates her.

Sutemi glances at his coach briefly, shrugs, and skates toward Dr. Ingram with a resigned expression on his face. He high-fives a few of the other skaters on the ice along the way and earns a few claps on the shoulder; Yurio scoffs and mutters _pretentious douchebag_ under his breath.

But Yuuri lingers. Hesitates. He taps his left toe pick against the ice three times—a nervous habit, Viktor knows.

He tries not to feel disappointed when Yuuri clenches his jaw and skates after his student, his strides long and low. The throng of other skaters part like the sea as he passes them, their eyes wide and fingers fidgeting nervously at their sides as if itching to pull out pens for his autograph.

As usual, Yuuri doesn’t notice the attention. At least some things never change.

A sharp pain in his ribs, and Viktor recoils and looks over. Yurio is glaring at him, his teeth bared in a grimace.

“I’m fucking _doomed,”_ he hisses.

Viktor blinks. It takes him a second to remember the quad flip. “Oh. Right.”

Yurio smacks his arm. “What the hell? You’re not supposed to agree with that!”

“I wasn’t! I was just saying—“

But Yurio drops his duffel on a nearby bench and plops down with a huff, dropping his face in his hands. His braid hangs limply behind his ear.

“I knew he was working on his jumps,” he mutters. “But I figured he’d go for the Lutz or something—not the freaking _flip._ And what was that routine?” he demands, looking up. “Those moves sure as hell weren’t all standard.”

“It was probably his exhibition skate. And just because he can pull of a quad flip in the exhibition doesn’t mean he can do it under pressure.”

“No, it means I’m doomed,” he corrects bitterly. Another sigh, shaking his head. “So fucking doomed.”

“Say doomed one more time.”

“ _Doomed_ , Viktor.”

In his peripherals, Viktor sees Harper reach out to touch Yuuri’s elbow. She gestures toward the off-ice warmup room down the hall, the pink foam roller in her hand brighter than any neon sign. Yuuri’s expression is strangely pinched.

Viktor swallows down the broken glass in his throat. Gesturing toward the ice he tells Yurio, “Get your skates on and start practicing. Don’t think about Sutemi or anything else while you’re out there, okay? Just focus.”

For once, Yurio does not object. He puts on his skates and begins his warmup laps around the ice, hair floating weightlessly behind him as he picks up speed. Without the protection of his leopard-print hoodie, his black eye is on display for the world to see as glaringly obvious as a wine stain. A few of the skaters stare as he passes, murmurs rippling through the crowd.

The murmurs fall silent as Yurio leaps into a flawless quad Salchow on his second lap.

_Show-off._

Sutemi is watching from the sidelines, brows set low over his eyes as he scrutinizes every aspect of Yurio’s form. He lifts a water bottle to his lips as his eyes follow Yurio through one of his old routines from last year’s Nationals; a stark white bandage over his knuckles catches Viktor’s attention.

A flash of bright pink as Harper taps the foam roller against Sutemi’s shoulder. He turns with a smile and laughs, ducking out of the way of a good-natured swat, and Harper’s face glows with an irritating amount of fondness as she emphatically points toward the off-ice practice room. Sutemi holds up his hands in mock surrender and goes with her.

Yuuri trails behind ever so slightly. He is frowning, and Viktor cannot figure out why.

Once they’re gone, Viktor tries his best to focus on Yurio. Really, he tries. He calls out corrections and points out errors when he makes them, offers vague suggestions here and there, and generally tries to be a good coach to his student. He even considers getting his skates out to shadow Yurio just like Yuuri had done earlier, but he ultimately decides against it; at his age, he’s not sure he could keep up with Yurio’s spitfire pace.

He wishes Yakov were here. Yakov, with his coarse yelling and that bulging vein in his forehead, thin hair half-frizzed from pulling on the ends in aggravation. Russian curse words. A solid presence, grounding.

He would tell Viktor he’s being ridiculous. He would grumble and complain about Beijing being too warm for February and tell Viktor ‘ _When I was younger—‘_ until Viktor tuned him out, his harsh Russian syllables sounding more like a lullaby than Brahms ever did.

Viktor tries to focus on Yurio. It doesn’t go half as well as he’d like.

 

* * *

 

_(Every night when I go to bed I think, ‘In the morning I will wake up in my own house and things will be back to the way they were.’_

_It hasn’t happened this morning, either.)_

 

* * *

 

_April 9, 2017 — St. Petersburg, Russia_

 

_“Vitya,” he gasps, a trembling prayer on his lips. “Vitya, I can’t—“_

_A hushed sound, fingers pressed to the supple flesh of Yuuri’s thigh. “Yes, just like that, solnyshko. A little more—“_

_Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head back against the carpet, face twisted in pain as Viktor pushes him further. Viktor braces himself over Yuuri’s prone form, leaning into the warm pressure of the leg that’s propped against his shoulder; Yuuri’s knee is straight, the tendons taut as bowstrings where Viktor’s fingers are splayed over his pearlescent skin. One, two, three…_

_Viktor eases off, and Yuuri lets out a shuddering breath as his hamstring slackens. Viktor sits back on his haunches and allows his fiancé some time to breathe._

_“I hate you,” Yuuri says, not meaning a word of it. He deflates, sinking into the carpet like a puddle of goo. “God, I hate you so much.”_

_“You know, one of these days, you’re going to say that and I’m going to believe you,” Viktor points out. “Besides, you’re the one who didn’t want to hire a personal physical therapist. You only have yourself to blame.”_

_Yuuri snags the end of one of their foam rollers at the foot of the couch and chucks it in the direction of Viktor’s head; he dodges it, laughing. “I don’t like it when people touch me. You know that.”_

_“Ah, but you like it when_ I _touch you,” Viktor hums self-satisfactorily. He rolls forward on his heels and flips onto his stomach next to Yuuri, cheek supported on one hand as he memorizes every angle, every plane of his fiancé’s face. He lifts an eyebrow. “Unless you were lying this morning, in which case I’ll have you know that it was a very convincing performance. Oscar-worthy.”_

_Yuuri flushes to the tips of his ears. “Oh, shut up. You know I liked it,” he mumbles._

_Viktor drops a swift kiss on his cheek and chuckles against his smooth skin, his breath ghosting over the shell of Yuuri’s ear; he shudders. “Well, of course you did. It’s hard to fake screams like that, after all—“_

_This time, he doesn’t avoid the foam roller to the face. Viktor’s too happy to care._

* * *

 

Seeing Yuuri in the practice room is a lot like looking at a work of art in a museum: objectively, Viktor knows that he is in the presence of something great, something that everybody else in the world loves and appreciates—but he cannot, for the life of him, figure out _why._

There are a handful of skaters and coaches milling around the practice room. Mirrors line the far end of the room, making it appear twice as big, and a few athletes are laid out on padded tables with NormaTec sleeves cinched around their legs, pulsing and squeezing the lactic acid out of their skate-weary muscles; Sutemi is third from the left, earbuds in and, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world. The rest of the athletes in the room are busy practicing their lifts, jumps, and exercising. It’s just like any other off-ice practice room Viktor’s ever seen.

Except for Yuuri, who is sequestered away in a corner with Dr. Harper Ingram, her hands all over his legs as she leads him through a few partner stretches—and Viktor can’t _breathe._

She’s touching him.

She’s _touching_ him.

Viktor doesn’t move. He can’t feel anything below the neck, if he’s being completely honest. He finds himself frozen in the doorway of the off-ice practice room, his own nauseated expression reflected the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in stark relief as he watches, waits, wonders. Yuuri’s face is screwed up in pain, his lips stretched thinly over his teeth as Harper presses back on his leg, holding his knee straight in a partner’s hamstring stretch— _their_ stretch. The one they always did together after long practices in St. Petersburg.

He’s staring and he wants to stop but he just _can’t_ —

“Oi, move it,” Yurio grumbles, nudging him in the center of his back. “You’re blocking the doorway.”

Viktor swallows down the rock that’s lodged itself in his throat and takes a stumbling step forward. Harper is murmuring something to Yuuri, her smile soft and secretive.

They haven’t seen Viktor yet. He almost wants them to.

He sets his duffel bag down on the mats closest to the door and clenches his teeth together until they crack. He can do this. He _has_ to do this.

Yurio comes up on his left, setting his bag down next to Viktor’s and shedding his jacket. His eyes dart toward the leaping muscle in Viktor’s jaw before sparing a glance in Yuuri’s direction. His eyes narrow. “Ugh,” he scoffs. “Gross bitch.”

“Quiet. She helped fix your face,” Viktor reminds him softly. He feels like he’s eaten glass, like he’s bleeding from the inside out.

Yurio rolls his eyes. “So? My face would be fine if it wasn’t for Team Japan over there.” He gestures toward Sutemi and his coaches, a sneer set in stone on his lips. “Besides, she’s being super gross with Katsudon. There are people here trying to _work_ , not watch them suck face all over the mats. Disgusting.”

Viktor doesn’t want to think about Harper sucking any part of Yuuri, his face included. The glass shards in his stomach get a little sharper.

Yurio boldly stares at them both as Yuuri and Harper switch positions for a butterfly stretch; Viktor can’t help but watch alongside him. She takes her spot behind Yuuri and begins pressing down on his knees for him, her chest pressed snugly against his back as she murmurs sweet nothings into his ear.

“They are a bit… much,” he agrees hesitantly, swallowing down the bile that threatens to creep up the back of his throat. _It’s been four years and I shouldn’t care why do I care why why why—_

Yurio frowns and looks up at Viktor. His flinty expression dulls ever so slightly, and something akin to pity flashes through his eyes so fast that Viktor almost misses it.

Yurio bites the inside of his cheek, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his track pants. “You, uh—“ he clears his throat. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I can handle this part on my own, meet you back at the village after dinner. You know, whatever.”

And _oh,_ how Viktor wants to take him up on the offer. He wants to say _yes, please, get me out of here_ and sprint from the practice room like his life depends on it because maybe, somewhere deep inside, it actually does.

He inhales shallowly like the oxygen is finite, like there’s not enough in the room to support all of the athletes at once. Sacrifices must be made, and Viktor is more than willing to be first in line—

But he doesn’t move. Instead, he breathes a little shallower and endures with what little air that’s left, shaking his head. “No. I’m your coach. I need to be here.”

“But—“

“It’s fine,” he says with a fake smile that’s starting to feel more familiar by the minute. “I can handle a little PDA for a few hours. Go,” he orders, gesturing toward the center of the room. “Grab a jump rope and start your calisthenics before I die of old age.”

Yurio gives him a look that says _I don’t believe you,_ but he doesn’t push the issue. Instead, he grumbles under his breath and does as he’s told—and that’s a miracle if Viktor’s ever seen one.

Viktor leans back against the wall to wait for Yurio to warm up, and he pulls out his phone to skim through Instagram. His eyes yearn for a focal point that doesn’t involve Yuuri and that blonde American college graduate doctor-person _whatever she is._ But with all the athletes travelling to Beijing, Instagram is strangely empty this morning; it doesn’t distract him for very long.

So instead, Viktor does what he does best in these types of situations: he trains his gaze on the mats at his feet and ignores the problem.

It’s not a very effective tactic, truth be told, but there’s little else he can do at the moment. He tries his best to focus on Yurio and his exercises, his lighter-than-air jumps, the way he scowls at any skater who looks too closely at his black eye. Viktor approaches and makes corrections, demands do-overs, and drills him until his student is red-faced and panting.

In another life, maybe Yakov would be proud of him.

Or maybe not, because for every second Viktor watches his student, he spends _twothreefour_ staring at Yuuri in the reflection of the wall mirrors. He just can’t help it. It’s instinct, honed to a sharp edge after years of subtle glances at competitions under the blinding scrutiny of too many cameras and _please don’t follow me, Vitya._ He wants to stop staring. He just… can’t.

What’s that quote about old habits? Something about dying, and dying _hard_.

Viktor hates irony.

 

* * *

 

_February 10, 2018 — PyeongChang, South Korea_

_A king-sized bed is, on average, 76 inches wide. Tonight, Viktor feels every single one of them._

_Yuuri is curled up on the right side of the bed, his back turned toward Viktor in the universal sign for please-don’t-talk-to-me. He hasn’t moved for half an hour, but Viktor is pretty sure he’s still awake and just pretending to be asleep to avoid further fighting._

_He wants to reach out, to tangle his fingers through the spill of Yuuri’s raven hair and hold him close._

_But he doesn’t, because what would he_ say? _I’m sorry for ditching you at practice again even though I said I’d stop being so flaky? I’m sorry I’m a shitty fiancé-slash-coach with an even shittier attention span?_

_He never knows what to say anymore. He hasn’t for a long time now. Weeks, even. It’s terrifying._

_Viktor twists the ring around his finger until his skin stretches and burns. Every inch between their bodies feels infinite, endless, like leagues instead of a simple arm’s length—easy to cross in theory, but not so much in practice._

_He feels like he’s going to be sick._

_He swallows brittle nerves and bile as they creep up his throat. “Yuuri?” Viktor whispers, his voice softer than a prayer. He shifts forward, edging the canyon of space between them like it’s a delicate bubble he’s too afraid to burst. “Yuuri, are you awake?”_

_No response, save an almost-invisible hitch in Yuuri’s breathing. He’s awake, all right. Viktor waits for him to say something in response._

_Yuuri never answers, but Viktor never stops waiting. Not really, anyway._

* * *

 

The weight of Viktor’s gaze on Yuuri’s back is familiar, warm, and stifling. Yuuri tries his best to ignore it.

At times, it’s almost easy. It is far simpler to focus on the unpleasant twinge in his right knee as Harper tries her best to work out the stiffness in his ligaments rather than the skin-crawling sensation of being watched. The mirror in front of Yuuri makes things a little harder, however—it’s almost impossible not to notice the stiff set of Viktor’s jaw and the furrow between his eyebrows as he watches Yurio practice his jumps in the far corner.

(Viktor’s face isn’t built for scowls and glaring. It’s built for heart-shaped smiles, flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes. His current expression is that of a stranger’s—but hey, that’s nothing new.)

Behind him, Harper murmurs something Yuuri doesn’t catch; he’s too distracted to listen. He allows himself to be led into a deep forward stretch, legs straight on either side of him in an uncomfortable splits as she _pressespressespresses_.

The weight of her hands on his back should be comforting.

It isn’t.

“You’re tense,” she tells him. She kneads the knots in his back with nimble fingers.

 _I know._ Yuuri swallows thickly. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Something on your mind?”

The back of his neck tingles, warmth sluicing uncomfortably over his shoulders. Viktor is looking at him again.

“No,” Yuuri lies. “Just sore.”

 

* * *

 

_(But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.)_

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All quotes come from "The Handmaid's Tale" by Margaret Atwood. Also, writing two fics at the same time is brutal. I'm way behind on my grading. Love you all anyway. <3
> 
> Next stop: the long-awaited opening ceremony! Viktor and Yuuri will actually have to talk to each other and play nice! Phichit will be overbearing and Chris will finally make an appearance! HOORAY!
> 
> As always, leave me a comment. What was your favorite part? (Also, leave me some fic recommendations. I'm running out of well-written YOI fics, and hunting through your guys' bookmarks/stories takes foreeeever.)


	11. in a thaw of anxiety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *has a plan for the chapter, sits down to follow said plan*  
> Also me: *throws the plan out the window and sets it on fire because I do what I want* 
> 
>  
> 
> (Warning: panic attacks, anxiety)

Yuuri knows, in terms of square footage, that the Olympic village is actually quite large. Sprawling, even. It is practically full to bursting with fancy food courts, recreational buildings, practice facilities, and pristine landscaping that, in Yuuri’s opinion, is totally wasted on the bitter temperatures of early February. Statistically, with the sheer vastness of the place, it should be _impossible_ for Yuuri to see Viktor as often as he does.

And yet.

Yuuri sees him in the lobby of their building, all fake smiles and shiny hair that doesn’t look sparse at all. Yuuri sees him at the rink with Yurio, fingers pressed against his mouth as he watches his student with narrowed eyes and a stiff jaw. He sees Viktor at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, bent over his food on the other side of the room with a stoic expression on his face that always makes Yuuri lose his appetite for unexplainable reasons.

Worst of all, Yuuri hears his voice as Viktor passes by his room because the walls are thin and the doors are thinner, and Fate is cruel enough to taunt Yuuri with the familiar sounds of rapid-fire Russian like she’s trying to fucking _prove something._

Harper’s words echo. _No. He didn’t really say anything at all, actually._

God. It’s just not fair _._

But instead of succumbing to the emotions that churn in his gut every waking moment of every day, Yuuri focuses on Sutemi because it’s his job, dammit, and he’s here to _do_ that job. He’s here to help his student get the gold, smile for the cameras, sign with some sponsors, and leave _._ Make Japan proud, they’d said. He won’t mess this up again if it’s the last thing he does.

They practice at odd times of the morning and night to keep his routine hidden from the prying eyes of competition. Lutzes, flips, and Salchows feel more natural than walking at the end of each session. They practice and practice until they’re naught but shadows of their former selves, utterly sapped of energy at the end of every night. The beds are not comfortable.  

Harper is the only one with energy, it seems. It’s like she’s her own personal power source and her reserves are bottomless. She smiles and laughs and _lives_ like it’s the easiest thing in the world _,_ taking the time to enjoy everything Beijing has to offer her. Under normal circumstances, her humor would be infectious—

But Viktor’s presence makes Yuuri edge away from her whenever she gets too close, too touchy-feely, and Yuuri can’t, for the life of him, figure out _why._

Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice his reticence. Instead, she smiles brightly and takes pictures of everyone and everything, documenting her first journey to the Olympics like she’s the star of her own documentary because _these memories need to be preserved, Yuuri._

He smiles for the camera when he has to. It doesn’t mean he enjoys it.

It’s a weird feeling, Yuuri thinks one morning as he stares down into his cup of morning coffee in the cafeteria. He’s never been uncomfortable around Harper before. He’s always found himself leaning into her touch when she helps him stretch those finicky muscles of his, relying on her talented hands to ease the aches and pains that he knew would show up sooner or later; they certainly didn’t disappoint. He’s never minded the way her elbows brush his at the breakfast table. He’s never minded the way her breath brushes against his ear when she leans in close to whisper something funny about another skater when they’re at the rink. He’s never minded _any_ of it.

But here? With all these eyes on him and the cameras and the whispers of _isn’t that Katsuki Yuuri, the guy who fucked up his free skate in Korea?_ Yuuri finds that he minds quite a bit.

He especially minds when Viktor’s actually around doing—whatever it is he does. Viktor things, most likely. To be honest, it’s… _weird_ to be in the same room with Viktor after all this time, to say the least. They repel each other like polar ends of magnets, some unseen force jammed between them to push them apart every time they share a space.

And it just doesn’t make _sense_. They’ve been coaches on the circuit for years at this point. Seeing each other across a rink or a bustling practice room should not be this horrible. Awkward, maybe—but definitely not visceral, painful, _agonizing_. It feels like glass is being shoved beneath his skin and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

Maybe it’s because they’re sharing a hallway with one another, he thinks idly; at past competitions, they’ve never stayed at the same hotel before, much less the same _floor._ Or maybe it’s because the Olympics simply strikes a chord in Yuuri that he’d forgotten about. The familiarity of the routine, the plethora of foreign athletes, the itinerary he’s required to follow to the damn letter—it’s all so achingly familiar.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because Mari’s words keep bouncing around his head, muddled and half-forgotten with the decay of time.

_I think you should talk to him. Maybe if you got some closure, you’d feel better._

Or maybe he’d feel infinitely worse, did she ever think about _that?_ Because as Yuuri’s eyes dart toward Viktor where he stands on the other side of the rink for what feels like the millionth time, he’s not so sure about the outcome of that particular suggestion.

In a perfect world, Yuuri would walk up to Viktor with confidence he’s never experienced before and compliment Yurio on his skating, praising the young man’s progress to the moon and back because he’s missed out on doing it for the last few years. Yuuri would chuckle good-naturedly and stumble over an apology for his behavior in PyeongChang, and Viktor would smile softly and apologize, too, and then they’d be able to shake hands, laugh it off, move on. Maybe get coffee one of these mornings and catch up on the all the time they’ve lost. In a perfect world, they could be _friends_.

Realistically, Viktor would probably just glare at Yuuri and then pretend not to understand English. Yurio would skate over and curse at him some more. Yuuri would deserve every second of it.

(Traitorous thoughts flood his brain and paint his grey matter with bright colors. A perfect world, wouldn’t that be nice?)

No. It’s a pipe dream.

That’s all it ever is.

 

* * *

 

Before Yuuri knows it, the opening ceremony is upon them. He doesn’t feel ready.

Despite the cavernous room, Yuuri feels claustrophobic and hot under his collar. Team Japan mills around him on all sides, chatting with other athletes from the other countries as they wait their turn for the never-ending Parade of Nations. He does his best not to get jostled by overzealous athletes and coaches.

_Too loud, too busy, too—_

He tries to breathe. It’s hard.

“You know,” Sutemi says, messing with his knitted scarf for the fiftieth time in ten minutes, “I wasn’t really into these outfits at first, but they’re actually starting to grow on me a little bit. Check out how many pockets I’ve got in this thing!” He turns out the numerous pockets that line the front and inside of his coat. “Like, _damn_. I could store so much shit in here.”

Yuuri gives Sutemi a flat look over the collar of his garish red-orange parka. The scarf around his neck is knotted similarly to everyone else’s, the knitted JAPAN on the front in large, bold letters that is just a little too ostentatious for Yuuri’s liking. “Language.”

Sutemi rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, sensei. Lighten up. At least _try_ to look like you’re enjoying this.”

“I’m enjoying myself just fine, thank you.” Except that he’s really not. He’d rather be anywhere but here in this too-hot room with all these people and this _stupid scarf—_

A blinding flash, and Harper lowers her phone, squinting at the picture she just took of Yuuri’s scowling face. “The kid’s got a point. You look like you’re being tortured or something.”

And unlike Yuuri, who feels like an overripe tomato in his puffy parka and knit beanie that fits a little too tightly around his head, Harper wears the Team Japan outfit like it was tailored specifically for her. The jacket fits her snugly in all the right places, the scarf doesn’t look like it’s choking her, and her blonde hair cascades freely from beneath her hat with effortless beauty, gently curling past her shoulders.

He wants to tell her she looks nice because she _does_ and it’d be rude not to say anything but Viktor is somewhere in this massive room with Team Russia and he just doesn’t want to risk it. He _can’t._

“I just— I don’t like this coat,” he supplies lamely, shifting on his feet and averting his gaze. He’s hyperaware of the camera drones floating above their heads and the reporters making their ways through the crowd of athletes. “It’s just. Um. Really stuffy down here, I guess. Too many people.”

Across the room, Jamaica heads up the ramp into the stadium, their flag held high at the front of their group. The resounding roar from the crowd makes the ground tremble beneath Yuuri’s feet. Team Japan inches closer to the front of the line. _Come on, walk faster,_ he silently urges them. The sooner they walk, the sooner this nightmare will be over.

Sutemi frowns in concern, seeing through his coach’s bullshit with unsurprising ease. He opens his mouth to say something, and Yuuri braces himself—

“Oh my gosh—it’s _him!_ ”

Yuuri’s head snaps to the side to see three members of Team Canada—ice dancers, he thinks—approaching Sutemi with wide eyes and their camera phones out. They shuffle nervously on their feet, faces redder than the maple leaves on their scarves.

One of them steps forward. She gives Sutemi a hope-filled look.

“Y-you’re Sutemi Okukawa, right?” she asks shyly, fiddling with her phone.

Sutemi gives her a blank look. “Uh,” he says eloquently, glancing at Yuuri briefly. “Yes?”

The ice dancers titter excitedly amongst themselves. Yuuri looks at Harper, who is utterly amused at the situation, hiding her smile behind her phone as she low-key records the encounter.

The young lady holds her phone out to him. “Can I get a selfie with you? Just really quick! I know you’ve probably got other people lining up after what happened. It’s just—“ and here she trails off, biting her lip to hide a grin. “I’m a fan of your work— _if you know what I mean.”_

The last part is said in a conspiratorial whisper. It sounds like a bad line from a mafia movie or something like that. Yuuri half-expects her to make Sutemi an offer he can’t refuse.

Sutemi blinks, uncomprehending. “I— I really don’t, actually. I’m assuming you’re talking about my skating?”

Another one of the ice dancers steps up behind his friend’s shoulder, his gaze darting to the crowd around them to check for camera drones or stray reporters. When he doesn’t find any, he leans in and hisses, “Dude, she means the whole shitstorm with Plisetsky. We know that you’re the one who rearranged his face.”

Fear seizes Yuuri’s heart in a vice, and Harper instantly stops recording, ripping her fingers away from the screen like it’s red-hot. Her eyes are wide, lips parted in shock.

Sutemi doesn’t flinch, but the paleness of his face is indication enough. He swallows audibly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The other ice dancers give him a knowing look. “Come on, dude. Everyone knows it was you.”

“ _Everyone_?” Yuuri squeaks, and suddenly his coat is stifling beyond belief. He feels lightheaded.

This is it. This is how they’ll get disqualified, sent home in disgrace now that word has gotten out. He’s let Japan down _again_ and—

The girl in front giggles. “All the skaters know, yeah. But don’t worry! We’re not gonna snitch.”

The boy to her left nods eagerly, the pom-poms attached to his knit cap swinging wildly with the motion. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t freak out or anything. We’re here to tell you what a good job you did! You’re, like, a goddamn hero to us.”

_What?_

_Whatwhatwhat?_

Sutemi looks just as baffled. He allows his bandaged hand to drift subtly behind his back, out of sight. “I’m not,” he stammers, and it’s weird enough that Sutemi is _stammering,_ like he’s switched bodies with Yuuri and Yuuri died because there’s no other possible explanation for why any of this is happening. Sutemi shakes his head frantically. “Really, you don’t know what you’re talking ab—“

“’Temi,” Harper interjects, her voice smooth and ten times more level than Yuuri’s is capable of being right now. She gives the boy a wry smile and jerks her chin toward the trio of young ice dancers. “They’re fans of yours. Don’t be shy, just take the pictures.”

Sutemi and Yuuri gawk at her. Has she lost her mind?

But Harper simply shrugs nonchalantly. “What? They said they’re not going to tell on him. It’s a picture, not a signed confession.”

And Yuuri wants to stop her, point out all the flaws in her argument, highlight the risks they’re taking by even _discussing_ this so openly—but it’s all the encouragement Sutemi needs, apparently. His face clears and he beams, turning back to the ice dancers with his on-screen persona turned up to the max; his million-watt smile is brighter than any of the industrial florescent above their heads. Sutemi poses for selfies with the ice dancers, even being so bold as to insert his bandaged knuckles subtly into every photo.

Yuuri wants to tell him to stop. You’re playing with fire, he tries to say. Stop it, lay low, we have other things to worry about.

But Harper sidles up to Yuuri as the other skaters in the vicinity catch on to the selfie spree, and before he knows it, Sutemi’s being dragged into selfies with his bruised knuckles like he’s Picasso and Yurio’s face had been the canvas on which he’d painted _Guernica._

“You’re stressing,” Harper murmurs, watching as more and more skaters trickle through the crowd for a selfie with the guy who punched the Russian Fairy. “This isn’t a big deal, you know.”

Except that it is. It really is. Yuuri shakes his head mutely, unable to speak past the crippling fear that’s lodged itself in his throat. Harper, thankfully, does not push the issue. She simply smiles and bumps his shoulder, and Yuuri has to do his utmost not to dive out of the way.

There’s a commotion to the left that draws Yuuri’s attention. The crowd begins to part.

“Move it, out of the way, _best friend_ coming through—“

And Yuuri should be so relieved to see Phichit approaching their group, but the only thing that really crosses his mind against the upstream flow of pure anxiety is _how come he gets to wear a navy parka and I have to wear this?_

“Yuuri!” he calls out, breaking into a wide grin. He waves his selfie stick in the air as he approaches and opens his mouth to say something else, but then he notices Harper standing next to Yuuri. “Oh, hey, Doc. Lookin’ good. Japan’s colors suit you.”

Harper snorts and toys with the tassels at the end of her scarf. “I dunno, I miss my stars and stripes. But I guess this isn’t a bad substitute. How’ve you been, Phichit?”

“Never better,” he chirps, and leans in for a sneaky selfie that has Yuuri ducking out of the way like he’s dodging a bullet. Phichit squint at the phone on the end of his selfie stick and frowns. “Aw, Yuuri, come on. One photo?”

“Sh-shouldn’t you be with the Thai group or something? You’re going to walk soon,” he mutters instead.

But Phichit only rolls his eyes. “Yuuri, I _am_ the Thai group.”

“I thought there was a cross-country skier from Thailand,” Harper says, frowning. But Phichit waves her off dismissively.

“Well, yeah, but it’s not like anyone actually watches those events. They won’t walk without me, don’t worry.”

“We’re not supposed to leave our lineup,” Yuuri tells him nervously, glancing back and forth. The officials will come to find Phichit any second now, escort him back to his designated spot in line, and then maybe they’ll notice Sutemi and the other skaters and start asking questions about the selfies _oh god_ —

Yuuri isn’t paying attention when Phichit snaps another photo. He also doesn’t feel it when Phichit throws an arm over Yuuri’s shoulder and crushes him into a side-hug he isn’t capable of reciprocating.

“Come on, don’t be such a square,” Phichit whines. He jabs his selfie stick in Sutemi’s direction, where the boy is taking a large group photo with a bunch of ladies. “I heard the kid’s giving out pics. I wanted one for my Insta feed, you know? He is my new best friend, after all.”

“Oh,” he says weakly. “Right. Of course.”

Harper subtly takes a picture of the two of them with her phone, and Yuuri feels the artificial sound of the camera deep in his bones. She looks in Sutemi’s direction briefly as she types a caption for it. “If you want a photo with him, you’d better get in line now. He’s pretty popular.”

“Well, of course he is! He punched—“

Yuuri clamps a hand over Phichit’s mouth. “Oh my god, could you be any louder?”

“Mmph,” Phichit says, and licks Yuuri’s palm. He rips his hand away like he’s been burned.

“Gross, Phichit,” he moans pathetically, wiping his hand on his trousers, and glares up through the fringe of hair hanging in front of his eyes. “What are you, five?”

“Twelve, actually. But you’re missing the point. Your kid’s, like, a hero,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He snaps his fingers suddenly, pointing at Yuuri. “That reminds me. What are you doing after the ceremony?”

Curling into a ball beneath his blankets and sleeping off the anxiety that’s been fermenting in the pit of his stomach for the past five hours. He does not actually tell Phichit this little tidbit of information.

“I, uh—“ he searches for something to say “—I’m not doing anything, I don’t think. But I have a feeling you’re going to give me something to do.”

“Damn right,” Phichit says, beaming. He nods in the direction of the younger skaters. “You know just as well as I do that the kids are going to party hard tonight. So I was thinking—“

Yuuri remembers the bright, pulsing lights and the thump of the bass that would vibrate his chest at the parties in PyeongChang. He clenches his hands into fists to control the faint tremble there, and he hopes nobody notices. “I’m not going to a party, Phichit.”

“Let me finish!” he implores, giving Yuuri a sour look. He crosses his arms. “I was going to suggest going out, actually. Like the adults we’re supposed to be. Guang Hong knows a couple of places around the city he wants us to try before the games are over, and tonight’s my only free night for a while. He was going to try to get some of the other guys together for dinner and drinks or something so we can all catch up.”

“Sounds fun,” Harper hums, nodding. She elbows Yuuri gently. “You should go. I can babysit the kid for one night.”

Phichit’s eyes light up and he looks at her. “Oh, you can come, too! Sorry, that was rude of me. Feel free to tag along, Doc.” A devious smile splits his face and he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “You could be Yuuri’s date, you know.”

Suddenly, Yuuri’s coat feels ten times warmer than it did before.

“Date,” he intones.

The word doesn’t sound like English. His tongue is heavy and awkward in his mouth, like he’s fresh from the orthodontist and the anesthetic hasn’t worn off yet.

Are his feet _supposed_ to feel this numb?

Harper looks equally as uncomfortable. Her face is tinged red, and it’s definitely not from the cold, no matter how much Yuuri wishes otherwise. “Oh. I, uh. Huh. That’s… an idea.”

“So you’ll come?” Phichit asks, his voice colored with hope. “It’s going to be super fun—I mean, probably. I don’t actually know where Guang Hong’s taking us. But I bet it’ll be awesome.”

Harper glances at Yuuri sidelong, biting her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe tonight isn’t the best night for it.”

“Are you kidding? This is the only night for it! We don’t have to worry about events in the morning or—”

“Yes,” Yuuri breathes, suddenly feeling very hot and claustrophobic. He tugs nervously at his scarf, messing up the perfect knot ever so slightly, but he doesn’t have enough energy (or maybe he has too much energy) to give a shit. “I— yeah. We’ll go. Th-that’s—“ and he trails off because there are just _too many people_ and he’s going on a date with Harper now and the Olympic officials are going to figure out that Sutemi punched Yurio _and and and_ —

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he blurts.

He doesn’t give Phichit or Harper the time to be concerned. He knows his face is flushed and he _knows_ he doesn’t look like he’s feeling well, but that’s because he isn’t and he needs to leave right fucking now before he starts hyperventilating _._ So that’s exactly what he does.

He pushes past Phichit and slips into the crowd of his countrymen with their too-red parkas and silly hats. He mumbles apologies in—English, maybe? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He _can’t_ care. The far side of the room is his goal, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make it into a broom closet before he completely loses it in plain view of the cameras.

It’s been years since his last panic attack, but he remembers what they feel like—how could he forget? He’s standing on the edge of one right now, toeing the blurry line between _nervous_ and _actively choking to death_ with clunky feet he can’t seem to control _._ His breaths are shorter now, little more than gasps, and his heart is racing like he’s run a marathon.

Yuuri knows there’s a hallway in this direction where he can hide for a few minutes. He saw it on his way in. He just has to get there and everything will be all right, _everything will be fine._

(He knows it won’t be, but he can lie to himself right now because what does he have to lose, really?)

Instead of focusing on the bright colors of the other nations as he passes them, he tries to picture a door left ajar that’s practically waiting for him, advertising the refuge he so desperately needs right now. Maybe it’s a janitor’s closet, or maybe there’s actually a bathroom he can hide in.

Blue, green, red, white, it all blurs into a single amalgamation of color as he rushes through the crowd—

Silver.

He clips Viktor’s shoulder as he passes by Team Russia, his white parka brighter than the flash of the cameras that pepper Yuuri’s peripherals like cruel fireflies or fireworks that make him flinch. Yuuri stumbles, and Viktor just barely catches him by the elbow, preventing him from falling on his face in front of the reporters that are lingering near the edges of the crowd that is Team Russia.

And as he looks up to meet Viktor’s stunned gaze, Yuuri stops breathing entirely.

He just. Can’t. He can’t do _anything_. Yuuri stares, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water because his lungs aren’t working and his knees are trembling, barely supporting his weight as the wave of pure, unabashed _horror_ crests in his stomach like a tsunami.

He waits for Viktor to let go of him and push him away, for his face to harden like it always does.

But his face stays the same. And he doesn’t let go.

“Yuuri?” he asks, his voice soft and incredulous. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed, and his hair is covering one of his eyes, immovable thanks to the dark grey knit beanie that’s on his head. “What—“

And then Viktor looks at him— _really_ looks at him—and notices the redness of his cheeks that isn’t due to embarrassment for once, and the fact that he hasn’t taken a breath in twenty whole seconds.

_I never wanted this._

Viktor releases his elbow in an instant and _oh, god,_ this is the part where he shoves Yuuri away, pretends he never saw him because why would he want to, honestly? Yuuri fucked his chances a long time ago. He knows this.

But just as quickly as Viktor lets go, he seizes him again by the shoulders and looks at Yuuri with fire in his eyes. Fire that isn’t anger, that isn’t the slow burn of resentment he’s so used to seeing.

“Breathe,” Viktor tells him, his voice low and firm. “Yuuri, listen to me. You have to _breathe.”_

He’s quivering and _trying,_ dammit, but he can’t do anything when Viktor says his name like that. He only has precious seconds before Team Russia starts to notice that their former star is associating with Japan’s resident failure. He’s a relic from seasons past that isn’t worth Viktor’s time.

Viktor’s jaw clenches and he scowls. Quicker than Yuuri thought possible, Viktor reaches up to loosen the knot of Yuuri’s scarf, slipping it off his neck and dropping it to the damp floor without a second thought, muttering in Russian the whole time. He reaches for Yuuri’s collar next and unzips the top half of his parka—

Air floods into Yuuri’s lungs, cold and biting with all the sharpness of a razor blade. He gulps in lungful after lungful of air and sags helplessly. He expects his knees to make contact with the concrete floor with bruising force. At this point, he _wants_ the pain. He wants anything other than the debilitating numbness that’s now slowly spreading in his veins like venom from a wound. He longs to let gravity take him.

But Viktor’s there and he’s got a firm grip on Yuuri’s upper arms, keeping him in place. His mouth is moving rapidly—what is he saying? There’s a rush of blood in Yuuri’s ears, and he can’t understand a single word.

Then he’s moving. Yuuri knows they’re moving, but he can’t feel his legs. Is he walking? Is he being dragged?

Suddenly, he feels the cold hardness of a wall at his back, and Yuuri allows his knees to buckle. He lands hard on his ass, knees bent at awkward angles, but he’s _steady_ and the cold dampness of the floor is grounding enough for him to get his bearings a little bit. He takes a shuddering breath and puts his head between his knees as he struggles to breathe.

Viktor is still there, crouched in front of Yuuri with his grey-and-black Japan scarf clutched in his hands. Yuuri doesn’t dare look up to see the pity in his eyes.

“Do you—“ Viktor starts, then stops. He swallows audibly. “Do you need me to, uh, get someone? I could go find—“

“No,” he gasps, his voice still shaking. He bunches the stiff fabric of his trousers as he grips at his knees, searching for a handhold of some kind. “I’ll be fine, just—“ a shuddering breath “—give me a minute.”

Yuuri takes measured breaths. Inhale, exhale, count to ten—the works. He feels sweat dripping down the back of his neck, and he reaches up to tear his hat off, tossing it aside before running his fingers through his hair. He tugs on the strands and pushes them away from his face; it helps a little.

His pulse gradually slows, returns to normal. His stomach hurts. His skin feels itchy.

But he feels a little better.

Feeling brave (or possibly very, very stupid), Yuuri chances a look at Viktor through his fingers. He hasn’t moved an inch from his crouched position at Yuuri’s feet, but he’s stretching and tugging at the scarf in his hands, wringing it nervously like he’s trying to strangle the damn thing. He looks incredibly uncomfortable.

Yuuri wants to thank him. He wants to say a lot of things, really, not all of them sensible. He opens his mouth.

“Oh my god,” comes a panicked voice, halting the words on his tongue. “Yuuri! Are you okay?”

Viktor stiffens. Yuuri clamps his mouth shut and just barely manages to bite back a scream of frustration, digging crescents into the palm of his hand with his blunt nails because _why, just why?_ He almost wants to snap at Harper to go away, get back in the lineup because she needs to walk with Sutemi in the Parade of Nations, but he can’t bring himself to say anything at all; Viktor’s stony expression erases the words from his brain, leaving blankness behind.

Harper approaches and drops to her knees in front of Yuuri, just barely nudging Viktor’s shoulder in the process. Yuuri feels a pang of shame pierce his chest, and he can’t quite figure out why.

“What happened?” she demands sharply, turning to Viktor.

He frowns at her accusatory tone and leans back on his heels. “He was having a panic attack. I helped.”

“You helped?”

Oh.

_Oh._

Yuuri knows that face. He’s seen Viktor use that expression in the interviews, biopics, and press conferences that he used to hate so much. He’s using it on Harper now.

Viktor merely shrugs nonchalantly and stares at a spot on the wall like he’s bored with this line of conversation. “I’m not heartless, Miss Ingram. I only did what was necessary.” Harper bristles at the blatant disregard of her title, but Viktor rises to his feet in one fluid motion, not giving her time to speak. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my group. A pleasure, as always.”

And with that, Viktor turns on his heel and stalks away from them. He cuts a stiff, imposing figure in the blinding halogens overhead.

Before he gets too far out of earshot, Yuuri finds a thread of courage he can’t explain. “Viktor!”

He stops dead in his tracks. Viktor doesn’t turn around—instead, he turns his head to the side, his profile sharp and impassive.

Yuuri swallows. He can’t lose his nerve now.

“Th-thank you,” he stammers, and his voice is quiet enough that he worries Viktor won’t be able to hear him over the din of the other athletes in the room. “For helping me, I mean. Just— thank you.”

Viktor says nothing. He just stands there, trapped in shades of white, grey, and silver like an old photograph Yuuri would very much like to put in an album for safekeeping.

In the end, Viktor nods once, sharply, and keeps on walking.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love it when you guys comment with your favorite lines, so feel free to do that again. By all means, indulge me. Maybe we can break 300 kudos with this chapter! 
> 
> Next up: Viktor and Chris go to an after-party. Yuuri is there with Harper. Viktor and Yuuri actually exchange more than three sentences in a conversation. Sparks fly.


	12. do I dare disturb the universe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmmmetaphors. Yummy. 
> 
> Also, this is the longest chapter I've written for this story. Phew. Enjoy it, nerds.

 

* * *

_February 12, 2018 — PyeongChang, South Korea_

_The rustle of fabric superimposed over shallow breaths. Over, through the loop, pull tight._

_“Better?” Viktor asks, raising an inquisitive eyebrow._

_Yuuri swallows and grimaces. His fingers slip beneath the thick knitted scarf to tug at it some more, pulling the scratchy fabric away from his neck. “A little.”_

_“I can re-tie it if you need me to,” Viktor offers, but Yuuri shakes his head._

_“No, it’s fine.” His voice is colored with false confidence, but he smiles in an attempt to hide it. He slips his hand into Viktor’s and intertwines their fingers, squeezing firmly. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”_

 

* * *

 

_(Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky.)_

 

* * *

 

Viktor counts the stitches in Yuuri’s scarf. Row by row, his eyes follow the black and grey loops of thin yarn, lips forming numbers he dares not speak aloud. ( _Twenty-seven… forty-nine… eighty-three…_ ) He tallies them up on the blackboard in his head in neat groups of five. 

It’s supposed to take his mind off things, distract him from the memory of Yuuri’s pale, horrified face.

It’s supposed to make him forget about the raging party downstairs and the fireworks that explode outside his window, signaling the start of the games for the rest of Beijing.

It’s supposed to make him forget about the way Yuuri had looked like he was about to say something to Viktor before that stupid American doctor showed up out of _fucking_ _nowhere—_

And, well. It’s not really working.

Viktor’s eyes trace the looping weft of the scarf as a soft sigh escapes his lips. Objectively, he _knows_ he should give the scarf back to Yuuri. He’s just down the hall—maybe Viktor could tie it to the doorknob for Yuuri to find in the morning. Surely that would be the safest option.

Or maybe he could act like an adult for two seconds and actually knock on the door, apologize, and hand it over in a civilized fashion. (And then he could ask if Yuuri’s okay because Viktor’s _worried_ , dammit, and he’d gladly sacrifice some of his pride if it meant finding out whether or not Yuuri’s recovered from that panic attack.)

Viktor squeezes his eyes shut and crumples the soft scarf in his fists, pressing it over his heart as if to staunch a wound. Afterimages of Yuuri fade in and out behind his eyelids. It shouldn’t be possible to feel this raw, not after all these years.

He curls up on his side, shuffling deeper into the comforter on his bed. Viktor, being the selfish, masochistic bastard that he is, presses the scarf against his face and inhales, hoping to catch a familiar whiff of green tea or Yuuri’s fabric softener, but the thing only smells of plastic and the chemical burn of the factory where it was made. It’s not comforting.

So, in an attempt to lull himself to sleep, Viktor continues to count the stitches. Though the Opening Ceremony after-party rages several floors beneath him, he is perfectly content to hide in his room until morning. He had staunchly refused to go to the party (Yurio had been thrilled. Mila had been considerably disappointed. Otabek, unsurprisingly, hadn’t cared at all.) and retreated to his room to seek comfort in the softness of his favorite pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt he got in Sochi during his time in Juniors. The subtle thump of the bass reverberating through the floor of his room tells Viktor that he made the right decision.

Viktor, as much as he hates to admit it, is getting too old for this shit. Yakov would be so proud.

_One hundred and four._

(Another explosion outside his window paints the entire room red and blue. You’d think they’d run out of fireworks at some point. Viktor doesn’t think the sky’s been dark since the ceremony started.)

_One hundred and thirty-six._

(He considers closing his blinds. There’s no way he’s getting to sleep with all this racket.)

_One hundred and sixty-eight._

(Honestly, the ceremony is _over,_ why do they have to keep shooting off fireworks?)

_Two hundred—_

The door to Viktor’s room shudders and flies inward with a deafening _bang_ that rivals any of the explosions outside his window. Viktor shoots up in bed, eyes wide and the scarf clutched against his chest protectively.

“Viktor,” Chris says flatly, as if that explains why he almost lodged the doorknob into the drywall. He lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed at the haphazard state of Viktor’s room; his gaze lingers on the white parka that’s draped over the lamp like it had been tossed there and subsequently forgotten.

Viktor crumples the scarf in his hands, hoping his fingers can obscure the overly-large _JAPAN_ that’s emblazoned on the end. “Christophe,” he returns with a careful expression, voice level with false ease. “Care to explain why you’re breaking down my door at—“ he checks the time “—eleven o’clock at night?”

“Isn’t it obvious, darling?” he drawls, taking a few steps into the door. He kicks the door closed behind him and waves a keycard in the air. “And it’s hardly breaking and entering if you have a key. Give me a little credit.”

“Where did—“

“Your star pupil gave this to me. I told him I was looking for you, and he was too drunk to ask any more questions.” Chris leans a shoulder against the wall and looks Viktor up and down, noting his sweatpants with mild distaste, but not outright revulsion. “It’s a little early to let yourself go like this, _cheri_. The games have only just begun.”

“I’m not letting myself go,” he mutters, flopping back on the bed with a small huff. “I’m trying to sleep. It’s late.”

Chris scoffs. “Eleven is not _late_ in the Olympic village. You of all people should know that. ‘Late’ is like,” Chris waves his hand in the air vaguely, “four-thirty in the morning. Five, maybe. 11:00 PM is practically afternoon tea.”

His words take several seconds to sink in, and only then does it process that Chris is wearing a fitted blazer, his Sex Pants (named for the way they hug his ass like they were painted on, as well as their 97% success rate), and his nicest shoes.

_Oh, hell no._

Viktor immediately tenses up, his shoulders coiled tighter than a spring beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “If you’re here to invite me to the party, I’ll save you some time.”

Christophe lets out and exasperated sigh. “It’s the _Opening Ceremony._ Everyone is—“

“No.”

“But it’ll be _fun_ —“

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard what—“

“ _No.”_

“Will you please let me finish?” Chris snaps, looking thoroughly irritated. He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling and mutters something in French about divas before looking down at Viktor with pursed lips. “I’m inviting you to a late dinner, not that filthy mosh pit that’s going on downstairs. As much as it pains me to say it, I think we’re both a little too, ah… _mature_ for that sort of celebration. Honestly, parties used to be much more civilized back in our day.”

“Civilized or not, I’m staying here,” Viktor mutters bitterly. He subtly slides the scarf beneath a pillow as he rolls back up to a seated position. Chris is watching him carefully, but doesn’t give any indication that he noticed the action. “I’ve got… _things_ to do in the morning.”

“You say that like you’re the only coach here. Come on—if I can find the time to go, I guarantee you can, too.” Chris’ eyes soften imperceptibly he searches Viktor’s weary face, noting the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “Besides, I think you could use a distraction. You look miserable.”

“M’not miserable,” he says miserably.

Chris has the nerve to laugh. “Not your most convincing lie.” He crosses the room to the bed and tugs on the hem of Viktor’s sweatpants encouragingly. “Now come on, get up. I’m not going to let you wallow here like some washed-up has-been. You’re Viktor Nikiforov! Pull yourself together and have a drink with me.”

“ _No_ , Chris. Go find someone else.”

He huffs in exasperation and braces his hands against his hips. “Look, either you can come willingly or I can drag you out of here by your toes. What’s it going to be?”

Viktor curls his toes defensively and curls up on the mattress, hugging his knees to his chest.

“You wouldn’t _dare_.”

 

* * *

 

Thirty minutes later finds Viktor in the backseat of an Uber as the skyscrapers of downtown Beijing zip by him on both sides. Flashing advertisements and glowing storefronts blur into a rainbow of neon colors, the hanzi characters screaming words in a language that Viktor can’t ever hope to understand. He feels dizzy just looking at it all; it’s like a litre of Asian culture has been dumped unceremoniously into his brain.

Chris is seated next to Viktor, absentmindedly scrolling through his Instagram feed as if he hadn’t just forcibly stuffed Viktor into a pair of dress pants and a button-up that feels slightly too small for comfort. Viktor’s jacket fits nicely, however, and his shoes have been freshly shined. He’ll never admit it to Chris, but he actually does feel a little better now that he’s dressed up and out of the stifling confines of his room. It helps that Yuuri’s scarf is still stashed beneath Viktor’s pillow.

Out of sight, out of mind, Viktor tells himself—but Yuuri’s never been far from Viktor’s mind since the day he met him.

Viktor and Chris endure the drive in relative silence. The entire city seems to be riding on the residual high of the Opening Ceremony: Viktor sees crowds of people on every street corner, some of them too drunk to stand and others too drunk to do anything except laugh and cling to each other; people wave the Chinese flag as they cross the street like it’s their civic duty to showcase their national pride.

Korea hadn’t been half as enthusiastic as this, he remembers. But then again, nuclear war isn’t hanging over China’s head like a heavy veil of fear. It’s a nice change from last time. Viktor drinks it in.

The Uber driver makes a sharp left turn, cutting off three expensive-looking sports cars and two cyclists as they merge into a more expensive part of town. The glittering skyscrapers and picture-perfect scenery almost makes Viktor feel at home.

“You haven’t told me where we’re going,” he murmurs to Chris, watching throngs of people pass by on the sidewalk next to their car.

Chris doesn’t bother to look up from his phone. “I don’t know what it’s called. The website wouldn’t translate. All the reviews had five stars, though, so it’s probably good.”

“How’d you find it?”

“Asked around. The receptionist in my building said it’s one of her favorite places in the city.”

Viktor nods, comforted by this. “Does it have a bar?”

“No idea,” Chris sighs, typing out a comment on someone’s photo. He pauses suddenly and glances up at Viktor through his lashes with a suspicious frown. “I thought you were cutting back.”

And he is, but he’ll deal with the headache tomorrow morning. “It’s… been a long day.”

Chris posts his comment, locks his phone, and drops his hands into his lap. He spears Viktor with a curious look, eyes narrowed and brows set low. “You know Yura will do just fine in the team skate, right? You’ve trained him well.”

 _It’s not that_ , he wants to say, but Viktor can’t open the Katsuki can of worms without some modicum of alcohol in his bloodstream, so he simply hums—a perfectly acceptable non-answer, all things considered.

Chris lifts one eyebrow, unconvinced by Viktor’s less-than-stellar rebuttal. “Right,” he says slowly. “Well, we’ll find out when we get there, I suppose.”

 

* * *

 

The restaurant, as Viktor discovers, is on the eighth floor of a hotel in the heart of the city. It’s just expensive enough to be comfortable with cut glass partitions and black granite surfaces as far as the eye can see, but the music that plays overhead is just lively enough to keep the heartbeat of conversation thrumming, pulsing. Modern-looking pendant lights hang from the high ceiling above every table, and the bar (thank _god)_ is long and low against the far wall, set directly in front of a floor-to-ceiling glass window that overlooks the glittering lights of the city. A terrace spreads out beyond the large window. The entire establishment is not overly busy, either.

In short, it’s a lot better than what Viktor had been expecting.

Chris slings an arm around Viktor’s shoulder, grinning as he watches Viktor take in the resplendent interior decorating that lies before them. “I believe I owe that receptionist some flowers. Aren’t you glad I pulled you out of bed, _cheri_?”

He’ll never admit it, but he is. It only takes some minor name-dropping with the maître-d (“Table for two, please. Someplace quiet, if you have it. Is that all right with you, _Viktor_?”) to get a table in the furthest corner of the room, right next to the windows that overlook the city. The restaurant gives them English menus, thankfully, and they end up ordering some light hors’deouvres to pad their stomachs for the inevitable sweetness of alcohol they’ll poison themselves with later.

As soon as the waiter slips away, Chris drops his chin in his hands, elbows braced against the tabletop, and gives Viktor an innocent look that hasn’t fooled anyone since 2010—especially Viktor. He braces himself.

“So, care to tell me why you were moping in your room in the first place?”

Viktor takes a sip of his water to buy himself some much-needed time to think about his answer. What should he say? He’s only good at lying when there are reporters involved.

“I’m just worried about Yurio,” is what he finally says.

“I don’t see him worrying himself to death over the sodding _team skate_ , Viktor,” Chris drawls. He taps his lower lip and smirks. “Singles, maybe, but only because my Luca is going to crush him underneath his toe pick.”

“Not likely,” Viktor snorts. “Did you see Yurio’s routine at the GPF? He finished—“

“Thirty points ahead of everyone else,” Chris finishes, rolling his eyes. “Yes, I am aware. But I might chalk that up to lack of competition, not skill. His step sequences were positively disgraceful.”

“We’ve been working on those since then,” Viktor mutters defensively. “He’ll be fine by the time his events roll around. You’re underestimating him.”

But Chris gives him a pitying look, one that practically screams _oh, honey, you really have no idea, do you?_ He purses his lips. “I’m really not, actually. If anything, I think _you’re_ the one who’s underestimating everyone else.”

Viktor traces patterns into the condensation on the side of his glass, frowning faintly. “That’s not what I meant. I know your student’s good, Chris, but Yurio’s got determination on his side. Luca doesn’t always show that drive in his skating, and—“

“I wasn’t necessarily talking about Luca,” Chris stops him, his voice soft with a wry edge that’s impossible to miss. “I was actually talking about the Okukawa boy. I’m sure you’ve heard that he has a quad flip under his belt, yes?”

_I saw it. It was beautiful._

Viktor shunts the gentle, traitorous voice off to the side and shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean he can do it in competition.”

“That’s not all I’ve heard, though,” Chris says quietly, leaning forward to conspiratorially whisper over the table. He almost looks _worried._ “Rumor has it that he’s doing something… _new_.”

“New,” Viktor repeats, unimpressed. Chris nods vigorously.

“The kid dodges questions about his routines in interviews like— like he’s _hiding_ something. Nobody’s seen anything from him in months _._ The only thing we’ve got to go off of is that flip he did earlier this week, and he won’t even comment on that. Haven’t you noticed?”

Noticing would involve seeing other things he doesn’t care to see, such as Yuuri and Harper and the way she hovers next to him every time they’re in a room together.

Viktor swallows and says quietly, “No, I haven’t.”

Chris lets out an exasperated sigh and leans back in his seat. He levels Viktor with a faintly annoyed look. “You must be awfully confident in your student’s abilities if you’re not willing to research your competition. Honestly, Viktor.”

Viktor lets out a low sigh and drags his gaze over the city skyline, following the contour of each crystalline skyscraper that glows against the indigo night sky. “Sutemi’s never beaten Yurio in competition before. There’s no reason to think he’ll do so here, especially since he took the season off. Skaters don’t just—“ he waves a hand in the air, searching for the word “— _change_ like that.”

“Katsuki’s medal collection says otherwise.”

And it’s… strange. He should be upset that Chris is talking about Yuuri, breaking the deal they made three and a half years ago. He knows this. He _tries_ to be upset.

But he just _can’t_. The feeling that travels up Viktor’s spine is a new one, foreign and vaguely unwelcome, but insistent enough to seep into his bloodstream and make room for itself like a long-lost relative that hasn’t visited in a while. Viktor frowns, unsure how to proceed.

“Sutemi isn’t Yuuri,” is what he finally says, though the words do not sound like his own. He traces the top edge of his glass, fingertip going numb from the cold. “I mean, if it were _Yuuri_ skating the events, then sure, I’d be a little worried. But he isn’t, so I’m not.”

“That almost sounded like a compliment,” Chris marvels, smirking. “But I suppose I understand what you’re saying. Still, that quad flip worries me.”

“What’s Luca been working on?”

“Well, he’s been trying for the quad Lutz, but he can’t quite get… ”

The conversation drifts back to more normal topics. _Safer_ topics. They discuss the weather, Chris’ husband (“Matthau’s in the Maldives consulting with a company for an advertising project. He said to tell you hello, and that we missed you at Christmas.”), and the quality of their rooms compared to the rooms they had in PyeongChang (“Single rooms are lovely and all, but they’re fucking _broom closets._ ”).

They don’t talk about Yuuri. They don’t talk about Sutemi, either. Viktor knows he should be grateful for reprieve.

But time and time again, as the conversation wears on and the night gets even darker, Viktor finds his thoughts drifting to the wayside, traveling down overgrown paths of memories.They’re innocent enough at first, and Viktor thinks nothing of them.

As he finishes his third shot of vodka, however, his thoughts begin to stumble off the pathways he’s so carefully laid out. His better judgement trudges through the bushes and takes shortcuts Viktor’s not fully comfortable with. For the first time in four years, there are so many things Viktor wants ( _needs_ ) to know.

He wants to know how long Yuuri and Harper have been dating. Are they living together? Oh, god, are they _engaged?_ Viktor hadn’t thought to check for a ring. Maybe they’re already married and Viktor’s just really unobservant—which isn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility, sadly enough.

…what if they have _kids?_

Viktor’s not even properly drunk yet and he feels sick. Jesus.

The clock is pushing 12:37 AM by the time Viktor and Chris stop drinking. They’re both floating on the numbness of their liquor, slouched and pleasantly boneless in their seats, when the elevator doors on the far side of the room _ding,_ drawing their combined attention for a split second.

Viktor’s heart crawls into his throat. It tastes bitter.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Chris murmurs, even though they hadn’t been speaking at all.

Devil’s not the word he would’ve chosen, anyway.

The group is larger than the other ones that have come and gone through the restaurant. All of the members of the party are dressed to the nines and talking animatedly amongst themselves, multiple languages overlapping one another to form a wall of nonsensical sounds that Viktor’s alcohol-addled mind can’t make sense of at the moment. Phichit Chulanont stands at the forefront of the group, phone in hand as he takes photo after photo for Instagram, his smile blinding in the dim lighting of the restaurant. Leo de la Iglesia and Guang Hong Ji flank him on either side, but Seung-gil Lee hangs back from the group, distancing himself from their enthusiasm as much as he can without looking like he’s doing it on purpose. The Crispino siblings are arguing over something in hushed tones, and—

And.

Viktor scans the crowd again, hating himself the entire time. Maybe he just missed him…

 _No_. Yuuri isn’t with them.

The first thing that comes to mind is _oh, thank god,_ and Viktor breathes a little easier. The second is _I really hope he’s okay._

Yeah. Viktor’s not sure what to do with that second thought.

Chris watches as Phichit strolls up to the maître-d and requests a table for his less-than-quiet group of athletes, leaning an elbow casually on the podium. “Looks like Chulanont’s getting the band back together,” he mumbles, too tipsy to speak clearly.

And even though he doesn’t want to point it out because then it’ll be more _real_ , Viktor returns with, “Not the whole band.”

Chris does a double take, frowning at the group as he searches for the missing piece of the puzzle. The realization gradually dawns on his face. He gives Viktor an encouraging smile and nudges his shoulder with a loose fist. “Ah. Well, that’s lucky. For you, I mean.”

The maître-d begins stacking up thick, leather-bound menus. He gestures toward the main part of the restaurant—toward Viktor and Chris’ hiding spot against the back wall. _Oh, no._

Viktor sinks back into his chair and tries to let his hair cover his face as much as possible. He glances at the elevator on the far side of the room. “Maybe we should leave. Before they see us.”

“Do you _want_ to leave?”

“Yes,” he answers instinctively. A pause, then he shakes his head. “No. Maybe?”

“Pick one, Viktor.”

He clenches his teeth and glances over at the group of people he once called friends. Now, he’s not sure what they are—but he’s pretty sure most of them took Yuuri’s side in their breakup, even though there weren’t sides at all to begin with. Meeting with them all in one place over dinner like this—

Viktor takes a breath. “Let’s go.”

Chris must see the urgency in Viktor’s eyes because he doesn’t argue. He waves over a server and pays their bill in hushed whispers as fast as he can, but every syllable is just another millisecond spent in the fear-induced shadow of _they’re going to see us._ Viktor taps his fingers anxiously against his leg as Chris signs the receipt and leaves a too-generous tip. Viktor barely manages to not knock his chair over as he stands up. They skirt to the right, ducking behind a large wall partition that’s topped with exotic-looking plants and flowers—it’s a straight shot to the elevator doors.

Phichit and the rest of the skaters move through the restaurant like an amorphous blob of sound and smiles; laughter bubbles up as the waiter directs them to a large, circular table in the center of the room, and they begin to pull out chairs and sit. Viktor’s head hurts just listening to them.

Chris and Viktor near the elevators. So far, so good. They give small smiles to the restaurant staff and try to appear casual, despite the thrumming of Viktor’s pulse as he reaches for the button on the metal wall panel that will call the elevator.

_Ding._

The doors slide open, and it takes a moment for it to sink in.

Yuuri stands in front of him, frozen in the threshold of the elevator with his hair slicked back and his navy suit jacket snug around his shoulders. He looks— god, he looks incredible, but Viktor doesn’t have the right to even think that anymore, so he doesn’t. Yuuri’s lips are parted slightly in shock as he takes in Viktor, then Chris behind him, then Viktor once again, almost like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

Yuuri mouths his name again: _Vikutoru._

It takes all of Viktor’s strength not to die right on the spot.

 _(Breathe. I need you to breathe._ Has it really only been a few hours?)

A movement in the corner of his eye, and suddenly the breath leaves Viktor’s lungs as red, so much _red_ floods his vision. The woman—Harper _who fucking cares what her last name is, honestly—_ stands at Yuuri’s right shoulder, one manicured hand cinched around his elbow like it belongs there. She’s wearing a slinky red dress and her mouth is painted red and Viktor is _seeing red,_ he needs to leave, to run away—

But he can’t. He can’t move.

“Well,” Viktor hears Chris say behind him. “Shit.”

And Viktor, despite the horror that courses through his body as he stares at Yuuri, almost laughs. _Shit, indeed._

 

* * *

 

Yuuri wishes he’d stayed in his room.

He could’ve said no. He could’ve explained to Phichit that he wasn’t feeling well and needed to rest, despite his agreement before the Parade of Nations. He could’ve told Harper to go by herself, to have fun and not think too much about him until the morning.

In retrospect, it would’ve been so much easier.

Viktor looks… nice. He’s wearing a fitted jacket and a button-up shirt with no tie—casual, but elegant—and his shoes are probably designer and more expensive than anything in this room. His face is unreadable behind his silver fringe, but Yuuri sees the faint aftershocks of surprise rippling through his blue-green irises, the stunned emotion mixed with something colder and more unapproachable that Yuuri can’t identify.

Yuuri should be terrified. For the third time in a week, he’s face-to-face with Viktor Nikiforov. It’s everything he’s been dreading for the past six months.

_Breathe. Yuuri, I need you to breathe._

He’s not terrified. Not even close.

Harper’s grip on his arm tightens, pulling Yuuri back to the here and now of _oh, god, Viktor is looking at me and I don’t know what to do with my hands. What do I do with my hands?_ With the spell broken, Yuuri finally notices Christophe Giacometti standing behind Viktor’s shoulder—his cheeks are flushed and he’s watching the exchange with a smirk.

When Chris catches Yuuri’s eye, he smiles congenially. “Yuuri! Fancy seeing you here. How long’s it been, my friend?”

Yuuri’s gaze flickers back to Viktor before hesitantly replying, “Um. A year? I don’t really know.”

“Far too long, in my opinion,” Chris says. He shoulders past Viktor to gather Yuuri in a hug that is much warmer than he’d anticipated. He smells alcohol on Chris’ breath. “We’ve got so much catching up to do. How are you, my dear?”

He’s still trembling slightly from earlier and his stomach hurts. “I’m… good. You?”

“Oh, I’m just wonderful. Matthau will be so sorry he missed you. He wanted to come to the games, but he’s currently tangled up in his work, unfortunately.” Chris releases him from the embrace and turns to Harper, giving her a once-over that isn’t nearly as sleazy as the ones he used to give back before he got married. “My goodness, Dr. Ingram. You look _stunning_ this evening. Red is truly your color.”

She holds out a hand for Chris to take—he drops a soft kiss on her knuckles that makes her laugh. “Charming as ever, Christophe.”

“I try my best,” he says lightly, smiling against her hand. Just as quickly, he pulls his hand back and drapes an arm around Viktor’s stiff shoulders. “Well, we won’t keep you any longer. It was lovely to see you both, but I’m afraid Viktor wants to go back to the village, and you _know_ how he gets without his beauty sleep, so—“

If someone ever asked Yuuri to explain it, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to. Not completely, anyway.

He feels his heartbeat pound in his fingertips, anticipation bubbling like champagne swallowed too fast. _He’s leaving, I don’t want him to leave, what the hell is wrong with me?_ He should be _grateful_ that Viktor’s trying to sneak past him. He should be _thankful_ he’ll never have to acknowledge the horrifically embarrassing panic attack from earlier. But as he watches Viktor’s strained half-smile and tired eyes, the way his knees sway slightly beneath the weight of Chris’ arm, Yuuri feels something strong and insistent creep up beneath his skin.

He inhales sharply— _breathe, Yuuri, you have to breathe_ —and says it before his mind can convince him what a terrible idea it is in the first place.

“You should join us.”

In his peripherals, Yuuri knows that Chris’ eyebrows have flown up into his hairline. On his right, Harper is pursing her crimson lips in mild displeasure. He should take it back, say it was a joke, he _knows this._

But he only has eyes for Viktor, and Viktor is staring at him with a strange mixture of confusion and trepidation that makes Yuuri fidget.

Coughing slightly, Yuuri clarifies, “The, uh. The table—“ he points over Chris’ shoulder “—has some empty seats. You should… stay. Here. Eat with us.” A pause, and Viktor is staring at him, incredulous. He fights the urge to bite his nails down to the cuticle. “I-if you want, I mean. It would be like old times.”

Old times. _Better_ times.

_Please say yes._

Viktor blinks, lips parting. He swallows. Yuuri waits with bated breath.

“We’d love to,” Viktor finally says, his voice soft around the edges. Almost like he’s telling Yuuri a secret.

Yuuri lets out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He aims a small smile down at his shoes and tries not to think about the cause.

There’s a soft pressure around his bicep, and Yuuri looks up at meet Harper’s gaze. She squeezes his arm and shoots him an are-you-sure-you-know-what-you’re-doing look. He nods once, faintly, and she exhales in mollification. Her eyes are creased with worry.

Chris, on the other hand, looks positively thrilled. He’s practically bouncing on his toes as Yuuri and Harper step past them to lead them back to the table in the middle of the restaurant. Yuuri makes sure not to brush Viktor’s shoulder as he passes, but the urge is there and it’s… odd. Very, very _odd_.

When Phichit hears their approach, he looks up from his phone to grin and wave them over, but his smile falters fractionally when he notices Viktor and Chris walking behind him. He cocks his head to one side in silent question.

 _Don’t ask,_ Yuuri silently pleads.

Phichit, ever the foremost expert on reading Yuuri’s mind, seems to get the message. He stands up from his spot at the table and flings his arms open wide in greeting. “Yuuri! We were wondering if you were gonna make it.” He notices Harper on Yuuri’s arm. “Oh, hey, Doc. Nice dress. Very sexy.”

Harper’s finger spasm. She laughs nervously, toying with the shimmery material that’s draped at her hip. “Thanks. I, uh. Don’t get the chance to wear dresses very often. It’s a nice change. ”

Sara Crispino braces an elbow on the tabletop and lets her chin rest on the palm of her hand as she sighs dreamily. “It’s _gorgeous._ I wish I’d brought something like that, but Mickey wanted to save room in our bags for boring stuff. I’m stuck with boring dresses for nights like these.”

Michele rolls his eyes. “You look fine _,_ Sara.”

“ _Fine_ isn’t _sexy!_ ”

“You don’t need to look sexy for anybody!”

The twins begin arguing in rapid-fire Italian on the far side of the table, hands gesticulating wildly with every pinched syllable. Phichit, ever the connoisseur of perpetual drama, snaps a photo of them before they can notice. He turns back to Yuuri with an exasperated look on his face, but his eyes suddenly slip past him to fall upon Viktor.

“Christophe. Viktor,” he says, and his voice is noticeably flatter than before. “What are you guys doing here?”

Chris claps Viktor on the shoulder and steers him toward an empty seat with little preamble. He shoots Phichit a saccharine smile before explaining, “Well, it’s a funny story, actually. We were just about to leave for the night when Yuuri saw us. He actually invited us over to sit with you all, if that’s all right.”

Murmurs ripple across the table. Even Phichit looks surprised.

“That’s…” Phichit trails, shooting a questioning look in Yuuri’s direction. “Huh. Well, I’m fine with it if he is, I guess. It’ll be nice to catch up—right, guys?”

More murmurs. Yuuri hears a soft “what the hell” from the other side of the table—it sounds like it comes from Leo. Guang Hong looks positively horrified. Seung-gil is the only one who looks just as interested in the cocktail menu as he did before Viktor walked up. But when none of the skaters openly object, Chris and Viktor find their seats.

Yuuri swallows and sheds his blazer, draping it over the back of a chair across the table from Phichit. In a stroke of misfortune, Viktor takes the seat to Yuuri’s left, and Chris sits to the left of Viktor. Harper sandwiches Yuuri in on the other side.

Suddenly, he feels extraordinarily claustrophobic; Yuuri scrabbles to unbutton the cuffs of his sleeves so he can roll them up to his elbows. The air that hits is skin is cool, but he’s still feeling much too warm for comfort.

As the cocktail menu is passed around and orders are placed, Yuuri tries his hardest to keep breathing like a normal human being. The surrounding conversations drown out the pounding of his heartbeat. He avoids thinking about the way Viktor’s elbow keeps nudging the boundary of Yuuri’s space and the way they keep accidentally knocking knees beneath the table like gangly teenagers who haven’t yet grown into their limbs. Yuuri orders a tall glass of mijiu just so he can have something, _anything_ to do with his hands. Viktor, he notices, orders a martini made with Russian Jewel vodka—it’s nice to know his tastes haven’t changed, at least.

Once everyone’s been served their drinks—Harper has a large glass of Californian rosé in hand and Chris is drinking some pink, fruity concoction—the conversations begin to drift in more casual directions. People ask the banal, expected questions like _how is your family_ and _how is your training going?_ Yuuri does his best to stay quiet throughout the exchange as answers are passed around as easily as the bread basket; he presses the edge of his glass against his lips as a poor excuse for silence.

In the end, it’s Viktor who speaks.

“Thank you for inviting us,” he says quietly, his voice low and soft.

Yuuri presses his glass against the surface of the table to hide the way his hand is shaking with residual nerves. He swallows. “Y-yeah. No problem. Least I could do, after— well, you know.”

“Are you, uh—“ Viktor hesitates, uncertainty gleaming in his eyes “—feeling better?”

Yuuri blinks at the rest of the activity around the table, wondering if anybody heard. It doesn’t appear that they have, so he nods slowly. “A little.”

“Good. I’m… glad,” Viktor says.

And the weirdest thing?

Yuuri _believes_ him.

There’s no underlying resentment behind his words, no double meaning hiding in their lengthy drop shadow. Yuuri had expected more malice.

His fingers tighten around the outside of his glass of mijiu until he’s worried it’ll shatter in his palm. A voice pushes, prods— _keep going, don’t stop._ He gathers his courage, approaches the ledge above the bottomless pit of _what ifs._

He leaps.

“I’m so sorry,” Yuuri says quietly, eyes aimed down at his lap.

Viktor doesn’t move a muscle. “For what?” he asks. He must feel the precarious grasp they have on the thin thread of conversation; his fingers twitch nervously on the tabletop.

Yuuri bites his lip. “For this whole week. It wasn’t—“ he takes a breath “—none of it was supposed to happen like this.”

Viktor’s index finger traces the silver ridges in the handle of his silverware, nail scraping against its own reflection. “It’s… okay. It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” he says firmly. “Don’t tell me that. Sutemi _never_ should’ve punched Yurio like that. I should’ve stepped in sooner, said something to stop him.”

“Maybe,” Viktor admits, dragging out the word. “But it’s done now. Dwelling on it doesn’t help anyone.” He takes a swig of his drink and sets the empty glass back on the table with a frown. He mutters, “He sort of deserved it, anyway.”

Yuuri turns and stares at him. “You don’t mean that.”

But Viktor only nods. “I’m fairly sure I do. He’s been insufferable these last few months.” A pause, like Viktor can’t decide what to say. Then, he adds, “He also insulted you. So.”

Yuuri rakes a hand through his hair and lets out a breathy, nervous laugh that sounds about two octaves too high. He sputters, “W-well, yeah, but it’s not like he was _wrong_ about any of it. He was right when he said—”

And that’s when Viktor looks at him.

He’s heard the tabloids and interviewers compare Viktor’s eyes to glaciers and topaz, but Yuuri thinks they couldn’t be further from the truth. His eyes aren’t cold, they’re not hard and unyielding like pretty stones found in the dirt. No, his eyes are the clear, salty waters that surround a coral reef—warm and inviting and deep enough to drown in. _Worth the risk, worth it all._ He knows those eyes better than he knows his own.

His stare is incredulous, disbelieving, and so _blue_ that Yuuri instantly forgets where he is and what they were talking about. Everything else just sort of… disappears for a moment. The conversations fade out to a low hum of white noise that doesn’t mean anything, leaving the two of them in wooden chairs, mere inches away from each other as they converse in a language that hasn’t been used in four long years.

_Is this what drowning feels like?_

Before he can inhale that lungful of water though, a voice cuts through the cotton that’s seemingly embedded in Yuuri’s ear canal.

“— wrong about what?”

Viktor and Yuuri blink, recoiling away from one another like they’ve been shocked. Viktor looks faintly confused, as if he can’t remember how he got here, like someone plucked him from one realty and placed him in another. Yuuri is absolutely certain there’s not enough oxygen in the room.

He feels a warm weight on his shoulder. A hand. Harper’s hand.

Viktor’s face goes mysteriously blank, his expression shuttering to form something colder and more aloof. He leans back in his chair and levels a narrow-eyed stare at Harper. “Miss Ingram,” he greets flatly.

“Viktor,” she returns. She squeezes Yuuri’s shoulder lightly, and he’s not sure he likes it. At all. “Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear a little bit of your conversation. Who wasn’t wrong about what?”

“Nothing,” Yuuri blurts. He shakes his head and shifts so that Harper’s hand falls from his shoulder. He turns in his seat to look up at her, silently pleading _don’t push, please don’t push._ “It’s— nothing. At all. Just making small talk. Coaching stuff.”

“Coaching stuff,” she repeats, clearly not believing him. Yuuri cringes, expecting her to call him out on it—

The scrape of chair legs across the floor startles them both. Yuuri’s head snaps toward the sound—toward Viktor, who is now standing.

“Excuse me,” Viktor says bluntly, his gaze cast down toward the floor at his feet. His brows are knit together in a deep scowl, but his cheeks are stained crimson. Before Yuuri can ask what’s wrong, he turns on his heel and walks away.

Chris looks up from his conversation with Phichit as he passes them. He frowns, calling out, “Viktor, where are you going?”

“Need some air,” he bites out.

And then he’s gone.

Conversations gradually come back to life, sounds trickling and melding to form the same wall of sound as before. Phichit and Chris trade confused looks for a moment before returning to their conversation; Leo and Guang Hong look flabbergasted. Seung-gil looks like he wants to go home. The Crispino twins are shooting worried looks in Yuuri’s direction, both of them on the same page for once in their lives. But, as the clock ticks and Viktor doesn’t return from the terrace, things return to normal, drifting back into alignment as though the boat had never been rocked in the first place.

It’s as if Viktor had never been there at all.

“Well,” Harper says quietly. Japanese flows off her tongue. “That was weird.”

“Really… weird,” Yuuri agrees. He frowns down at his hands, which are clenched into fists and beginning to cramp. He curls in on himself, hunching his shoulders forward protectively. “He’s never spoken to me like that before. Why—“

“Maybe he wants something from you.”

But Yuuri shakes his head. “No. It’s not that. Viktor’s a lot of things, but he’s not manipulative. Or a liar.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. He stares off in the direction Viktor had gone, and there’s a vicious clawing in his chest. He sighs softly. “I wish I did, though.”

Silence stretches between them for several heartbeats. Behind him, Harper sets her wineglass down on the table and settles her hands on Yuuri’s shoulders, rubbing soothing circles through the thin material of his shirt. He hates it. He wants to tell her to stop—but the words just don’t come.

He thinks of the way Viktor’s face had crumpled when Harper showed up.

He thinks of the way Viktor’s lips had parted imperceptibly as Yuuri daydreamed about blue water and coral reefs.

He thinks of how much, in that instant, Yuuri had _wanted._

Jesus Christ. He feels like he’s going crazy. Hell, maybe he actually _is_ going crazy. A voice niggles at the back of his mind, soft and persistent, reminding him of things he doesn’t want to remember at all. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility, but it’s so hard to ignore it when—

When he’s almost _sure_ Viktor had been about to kiss him right there in the middle of the restaurant.

 

But that’s impossible.

Right?

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me, please. I know you hate when Harper interrupts, but it was either her or Phichit, and I couldn't bear to paint a target on Phichit's back like that. Thus, Harper. Feel free to hate her for it--I sort of do.
> 
> Up next: Part two of this chapter (which includes everything I couldn't fit in this one because holy god I have a LIFE). Harper runs off somewhere. Viktor is slightly drunk. Yuuri may or may not find a scarf. TEAM SKATE. Who knows? Shit happens, man.
> 
> Drop me a line. I love talking to you guys. :)


	13. I am drowning, my dear, in seas of fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what you've all been waiting for.
> 
> All literary quotes come from “To the Lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf.

_The arguments are becoming more frequent._

_There’s no root cause, no objective starting point, as far as Viktor can tell. No one fires the pistol in the air and shouts, “Go!” Instead, it’s more of an insidious sort of sickness that seeps in through the hairline cracks in the life they share together, inching its way under their skin until they itch. Maybe, Viktor thinks, they’ve simply reached that breaking point where Yuuri’s lived with him for so long that he’s finally getting annoyed with all of Viktor’s bad habits (and vice versa, because Yuuri never rolls his toothpaste up from the bottom, he just crumples it in his fist like an animal)._

_By September, Yuuri begins to fidget whenever Viktor’s practice time bleeds over into his. He smiles nonetheless and his kisses are just as sweet as his words of forgiveness, but there’s an aftertaste of something that Viktor just can’t identify. He doesn’t want to call it bitterness, but he’s not sure there’s another word that would fit quite as well. It’s certainly not resentment. Of course not._

_(In the end, Viktor promises to do better. He never does.)_

_By October, they start spending more time at the rink, working themselves to the bone at Yakov’s and Lilia’s orders. They fight a little here and there—you’re not listening to me, just do the jump again and fix your free leg this time, stop eating that, you know it’s not in our diet plan—but they’re usually too tired at the end of each night to do anything more than trade verbal slights and thinly-veiled jabs before passing out on opposite sides of the bed. In a way, this is probably the best month they have together, mainly because they’re both too exhausted to do anything other than suffer in silence._

_By November, things start to bubble to the surface. It’s painfully obvious they’re tiptoeing around each other, too afraid to upset the delicate balance between them when the Olympics are only three months away. It’s been two weeks since their last fight over Yuuri’s scheduled practice time and things have been quiet ever since. Maybe too quiet—but Viktor will take quiet over shouting any day, so he figures this is probably the best way they could possibly handle it. It feels a lot like holding his breath underwater; he’s waiting to see how long he can last before he has to claw his way up to the surface again._

_By December, they stop having sex. Yuuri’s too busy, he claims, and Viktor’s too sore. The excuses sound hollow, but they all contain a thread of reason that Viktor clings to, hanging on for dear life like it’s the only thing tying them together at this point. He knows the frayed edges are beginning to show—or maybe they’ve been there the whole time and he’s been too distracted to notice them._

_Maybe it’s just willful ignorance. He’s always been good at that._

_January is a lot like October, in some ways. They’re both too emotionally exhausted to do anything other than settle into the cracks and fissures in their relationship that have been steadily growing wider as the months pass. They patch what they can and look at the holes too big to fix and say, “Well, maybe we can get to it after the Olympics. Then we’ll have more time.”_

_Time, time, time. That’s what it always comes down to._

_Except that their time together is measured in coffee spoons, the seconds more finite with each half-empty mug they find on the counter, arguing over who left the dishes out and why it even matters. Domesticity is not, it seems, meant for all couples._

_Viktor is starting to wonder if they’re one of them._

_(But that’s crazy because they’re Yuuri and Viktor, and they’re meant to be together, aren’t they?)_

_(_ Aren’t _they?)_

 

* * *

 

_(No, she thought, one could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low.)_

 

* * *

 

Yuuri trades out his mijiu for ice water. In retrospect, it’s one of his better decisions of the night.

After Viktor leaves to “get some air _”_ (whatever _that_ means), Yuuri can’t help but flick his gaze in the general direction of the terrace doors on the opposite side of the room every few minutes, mouth pressed against the rim of his glass as he pretends to listen to Phichit’s latest tale about his hamsters back in Bangkok. He nods along and hums when prompted, sometimes even going as far as murmuring a soft, “You don’t say.” It’s not convincing in the slightest.

Yuuri surreptitiously checks the clock again and crushes an ice cube between his teeth. Viktor’s been gone for so long. He must not be coming back.

But… it just doesn’t make _sense._ Chris is still here, leaning heavily into Michele Crispino’s personal space and putting his best effort into a leer, but his smile is shaky from too many cocktails and not enough food in his stomach. Surely Viktor wouldn’t abandon his friend here with no explanation.

Besides, in all the years Yuuri’s known him, Viktor has never left a party early. If that isn’t a red flag, he doesn’t know what is.

Across the table, Harper glances in Yuuri’s direction over her wineglass as she pretends to listen to Sara. The Italian skater gestures wildly with her hands, elbows flailing uncontrollably under the influence of the alcohol she’s been steadily tipping back the entire evening. Harper, with her indestructible liver and unusually high tolerance, isn’t even flushed.

(“I was raised on Tennessee whiskey and wine from the Valley,” she’d told him a few years back, sipping aimlessly on a small cup of warm sake in the dining room of the onsen. “If you want to get me drunk, you’ll have to try a _lot_ harder than this.”)

Across the table, Harper raises an inquisitive eyebrow, but Yuuri only shakes his head. _I’m fine, don’t worry about me,_ he tries to tell her, and she purses her crimson lips; Harper doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t press or make any moves to abandon Sara just yet. He is grateful for this.

 “—istening to me?”

The white noise in his brain gives way to Phichit’s voice, which sounds sharper than usual. Yuuri snaps back to face his friend, eyes wide. “Huh?”

The Thai skater sighs, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Ugh, I knew it. You haven’t been paying attention at all.”

He considers lying, but it’s late and he’s never been a very good liar to begin with, so he doesn’t even make an attempt at it. He winces apologetically. “Sorry. Spaced out for a second, I guess.”

Phichit snorts. “It was more than a second. Where’d you go?”

“I— I don’t know,” he says honestly, thinking hard about the answer. His head begins to hurt. “Somewhere not… here. Somewhere else.” He shakes his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Sorry. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

Phichit’s eyes soften. “You okay?”

And _no,_ Yuuri is not okay, but he’ll die before he admits it. His mind is someplace far away where smiles are shaped like hearts and fingers fluently proclaim _mine, all mine, just as I am yours_ as they press purple constellations into pale skin. He’s not okay at all.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs after a moment. His voice is level, unshakable. His face betrays nothing. “Just… tired. That’s all.”

But Phichit doesn’t look convinced because he’s _Phichit_ , and nothing ever gets past him without a passport and proof of residence. “Right,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t squeeze Yuuri for further information.

Yuuri almost wishes he would.

After five more minutes of failed half-conversations and unenthusiastic head nods, Phichit gives up. He gifts Yuuri with a pitying expression and goes off to talk to Chris some more, who is even more unsteady on his feet than he had been earlier. But before he leaves, Phichit squeezes Yuuri’s shoulder and gives him a sad smile. _You know where to find me,_ his eyes seem to say, and Yuuri gives a half-hearted head nod in return.

Theirs is a language without words. _I know,_ he replies.

And then Yuuri is alone.

He spares a glance in the direction of the terrace door. It’s dark on the other side of the glass, the vibrant lights of the city glittering like artificial stars in every color imaginable. Yuuri can’t see Viktor out there. He hopes Viktor’s not too cold; he hadn’t taken a coat with him when he left. He tries not to care—really, he does, because there’s no guarantee whatsoever that Viktor’s even out there at all, maybe he just went back to the village without them—but he can’t fight the strong current of his thoughts.

_Have Viktor’s eyes always been so blue?_

Yuuri leans back in his chair and clutches his water with both hands, staring at the beads of condensation that drip from the bottom edge of the glass and onto his trousers. It’s nearing 2:00 in the morning, and Yuuri is getting tired. Maybe he can slip away when no one’s looking, head back to the village, check on Viktor—

“I know that face,” a soft voice says, startling him out of his reveries. Someone slips into the seat at Yuuri’s side, and he doesn’t have to look up to know it’s Harper, wineglass in hand and a sympathetic smile curving her lips. “You’re upset about something.”

Yuuri exhales through his nose and lifts his shoulders a fraction before letting them fall again. “I thought I told you to stop reading my mind.”

“And I thought I told you to stop making it so easy.”

He purses his lips. “Fair enough.”

Harper crosses her legs, the fabric of her red dress shimmering in the low light of the restaurant. It fits her nicely—he’d said so when they left the village—but the color grates him and only serves to exacerbate his growing headache.

She gives him a concerned once-over that makes his skin itch, her eyes lingering on the scarlet flush of his cheeks and the way he’s holding onto his glass like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world. A small pucker appears between her eyebrows—she must not like what she sees.

Harper eyes the people at the table. Then, she leans in and whispers, “Do you want to head back to the village? You look miserable.”

And it’s literally the furthest possible thing from what Yuuri actually wants to do, but it’s not like he can _explain_ that to her. Or anyone else, for that matter.

Hell, he doesn’t even want to explain it to himself.

“What? No!” Harper’s eyebrows shoot upward, and Yuuri scrambles to come up with something convincing—which is hard to do, because none of what he’s feeling makes any sense to begin with. “I need to, uh…” he trails, searching for an excuse he hadn’t realized he would need until now. “Erm…”

His eyes fall on Phichit, who is swaying a little on his feet at Chris’ side. “I need to make sure Phichit gets back safely.”

But Harper only frowns. “I’m sure the others can help him—“

“But it’s tradition!” Yuuri blurts out. At Harper’s confused expression, he scrambles to plug the holes that riddle his flimsy lie. “It’s, uh, tradition to. To help each other home. We used to do it at all our competitions back when we lived in America.”

Harper blinks, deflating a little bit. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Yuuri gives her an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

“No, no.” She waves him off. “It’s cool. I just didn’t know. Figured I’d offer an escape route, just in case.”

“I appreciate it,” he says, putting all of his waning energy into making the sentiment sound warm. He coughs. “Are— I mean, are you going to leave?”

Harper hums and takes another sip of her wine, glancing out across the table at the conversations that drone around them. “I’m thinking about it. Somebody’s got to tuck Sutemi in, after all.”

“And by ‘tuck in’, you mean—“

“I’m going to drag him out of that after-party by his ear before he gives himself alcohol poisoning.”

Yuuri nods, smiling faintly. It’s the closest he’s come to laughing all evening. “Ah. Yeah, probably a good idea.”

“Will you be okay?”

Yuuri eyes the door to the terrace that hasn’t opened in what feels like ages. He looks at Phichit and Chris and Guang Hong as they hang off each other and reminisce about better times back when they were all friends and nobody had broken up with anybody. He looks at his reflection in a nearby glass partition and realizes how miserable he looks.

“Yeah,” he finally says, and he’s surprised to find that he actually means it. He waves toward the bank of elevators on the far side of the room. “I’ll be fine. Go find ‘Temi and make sure he’s not dead. I’ll see you guys at the rink in a few hours.”

She nods and stands up from her chair, smoothing down the front of her dress as she gathers her things. “Ten o’clock, right?”

“Yeah. And make sure Sutemi stretches before he goes to bed—I don’t want him to be stiff for practice.”

Harper hums, an amused smile curling the corners of her lips. “You’ve got an awful lot of faith in me if you think I’m going to be able to get that boy to do _anything_ when he’s blasted. But yeah, sure. I’ll do my best.”

“Do you need me to call you a—“

“I can manage hailing a cab, Yuuri. My Mandarin’s passable,” she tells him, sounding almost offended. She sniffs. “It’s not as good as yours, obviously, but I can probably make it back to the village without ending up in—“ she shrugs “—I don’t know. Mongolia or someplace.”

Yuuri feels himself smiling; a wave of warm gratitude crests in his stomach. Harper’s always been able to make him smile, even when it’s two in the morning and part of his heart is bleeding somewhere out on the terrace for no discernable reason at all. “All right,” he concedes, bowing his head. “Well, at least text me whenever you get back so I know you’re safe. And that Sutemi isn’t in a coma.”

“Hm. You worry too much, you know that?” she says softly, her voice tinged with fondness. She grins. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Just making an observation.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to say something intelligent and probably witty because that what he _does_ with Harper, it’s what they’ve always done—but he forgets what words are when Harper leans down and brushes a soft kiss against his cheek. She murmurs a goodbye he doesn’t hear and then she’s gone in a flash of red that makes Yuuri’s head spin.

He’s suddenly very glad that Viktor hadn’t been here to see that.

The rest of the table, however, sees every angle of it.

As soon as Harper has stepped into the elevator and the doors have closed behind her, Phichit lets out a low whistle from the other side of the table.

“Hot damn,” he says, words slurring ever so slightly. He looks over at Leo and holds out a hand, palm up and beckoning. “Cash, Iglesia.”

Leo heaves a long-suffering sigh and digs through his pockets with a grumble, pulling out a fifty dollar bill that he hands to Phichit. He shakes his head. “He’s your _best friend_. That’s totally an unfair advantage.”

“All’s fair in love and, uh— skating. Or war, I don’t know,” Phichit says. He squints at the bill in his hands and frowns. “What’s the exchange rate like right now?”

“Not great,” Seung-gil says flatly, and Phichit swears. He pockets the money anyway.

Yuuri stares wide-eyed at his best friend, though he’s not sure about the accuracy of that title at the moment. His fingers feel entirely numb. “You… you _bet_ on me?” he asks incredulously, looking from skater to skater. “What— _why?_ ”

Guang Hong crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair. “They had a bet on how long it would take you to start dating Harper. Leo never thought you’d ever work up the courage—“

“Not true!” Leo squawks.

“—and Phichit thinks you’ve been dating since December,” Guang Hong finishes. He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I stayed out of it, if it’s any consolation.”

Yuuri turns a venomous glare on Phichit, who looks complete unapologetic. He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m gifted in the art of reading way too much into vague posts on Instagram.” He levels a narrow-eyed stare at Yuuri and points at him with a stiff index finger. “And don’t even try to lie. You guys are good together! We’re all happy for you, man. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

And, all right, it’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed Yuuri’s mind from time to time. The idea is always _there_ in the back of his mind, lurking and waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Objectively, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to settle down with Harper in Hasetsu, or even in Los Angeles, and start a comfortable life together. It would feel… organic, in a way. Normal. Expected. _Easy_.

But it would also feel so very, very wrong. Yuuri knows precisely why—but he’ll never admit it, even in the secure silence of his own thoughts. Ideas, he knows, are powerful things. Desires even more so.

Yuuri runs a hand over his face and exhales through his fingers. “We’ve never— god, no. Just no. We’re not together.”

Chris, who is tipping precariously in his chair, snorts into his cocktail. “Oh, please. Don’t patronize us. We all have eyes, _cheri_. It’s obvious in the way she looks at you.”

“Yeah, _and_ she just kissed you!” Sara hisses, leaning forward. She winks at him and smiles deviously. “Don’t worry, we won’t tell a soul. Your secret’s safe with us.”

“There’s no secret!” he exclaims, waving his hands wildly. He cards his fingers through his hair and groans, sinking low in his chair as if he can hide beneath the tablecloth and disappear forever. “Look, guys, we’re not together. She’s a coworker, that’s all.”

“A very _friendly_ coworker,” Phichit says suggestively. He wiggles his eyebrows.

Yuuri clenches his jaw and says, in his most serious voice, “I’m… no. I’m not talking about this. Please, Phichit, just drop it. And give Leo his money back.”

For a moment, it looks like they’re going to pick on him some more and Yuuri braces himself for the inevitable, but Phichit must see the mix of exhaustion and desperation in Yuuri’s eyes because he lets out a sigh and reluctantly nods. He exchanges the money with Leo, who crows triumphantly.

An uncomfortable silence descends on the table. Chris is swirling the contents of his glass, looking anywhere but at Yuuri, and Phichit almost looks regretful.

In the end, it’s Seung-gil that speaks.

“I’m going home,” he announces, wiping his mouth on his napkin before pushing out from the table. He doesn’t even look buzzed, much less drunk, and Yuuri fights to contain how impressed he is. “Goodbye.”

And that’s that. He pays his bill and leaves, his face just as unreadable as it was four years ago when they did this whole let’s-eat-out-together-and-get-a-little-drunk thing in PyeongChang. Nobody looks remotely surprised by his abrupt exit.

As silence descends upon them once again, though, Mickey and Sara trade glances with each other, no doubt using their famous twin telepathy to come to the same conclusion. They stand up in perfect synchronization.

“Yeah, we should probably head out, too,” Sara says sweetly. She sends a rueful look Yuuri’s way. “Sorry. It’s pretty late, and we’ve got practice at noon tomor— oh, actually it’s today! How funny is that?”

Even Guang Hong heaves a sigh and pushes his empty glass toward the center of the table. “You both have a point. I’ve got the first practice slot.”

“Me too,” Leo says mournfully. He drops his face into his hands. “And it’s the same slot as Plisetsky. Fuckin’ kill me.”

Phichit looks crestfallen at the number of people standing to leave, but he presses his lips together and nods, trying for a smile. “Right. Well, thanks for coming, guys. It was nice to hang out like this again. S’been a while.”

Yuuri doesn’t pay much attention as the skaters pay their bills one by one and say their final goodbyes, promising to either crush one another or cheer during the team skate, but everyone knows they’ll be doing a little mix of both, no matter what the scores are. When Sara passes by, she lays a comforting hand on Yuuri’s shoulder and gives him a sad smile.

He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to mean. He doesn’t have twin telepathy.

“And then there were three,” Phichit sighs, slumping in his chair once everyone has disappeared into the elevator, taking half the noise in the restaurant with them.

“Four,” Yuuri says automatically. He nods in the direction of the terrace. “Viktor might still be out there.”

Christophe drains the rest of his glass and sets it on the table. He glances at the terrace door with a frown. “Hmm. I doubt it. He probably already went back to the village without me, that bastard.”

Phichit sends Chris a curious look. “He left? That’s not like him.”

“Well, he’s been in a foul mood lately, so I’m not exactly shocked.” Chris looks pointedly at Yuuri. “I swear, any time you show your face at competitions, he turns into a wet blanket. It’s almost annoying.”

“But that’s not Yuuri’s fault,” Phichit says defensively, eyebrows furrowed. “ _Viktor’s_ the one who—“

Chris stops him with a raised hand. “I think I can confidently say that we’re all aware of what happened in PyeongChang, Phichit. Let’s not rehash things here.”

Yuuri feels sick.

The Swiss skater turns to him and gives him a sympathetic smile, green eyes bright with the soft afterglow of alcohol. “You can imagine my surprise when Viktor accepted your invitation to join you all tonight. I was less surprised when he left, but still, this was a pretty big step for him. I’m impressed.”

Yuuri sinks lower in his chair, ardently wishing he could slip beneath the safety of their table and disappear. “I was just being nice,” he mutters.

“You know, it probably meant a lot to him that you—“

“Can we please talk about something else?” Yuuri says suddenly. His ears are burning. “Like, _anything_ else?”

Politics. Religion. Global warming. He’ll take anything at this point, just as long as the conversation doesn’t include Viktor. _Pick your poison._

Chris and Phichit trade a look that Yuuri doesn’t catch, and when Phichit turns to Yuuri again, his grin is made of plastic. “Actually, that reminds me of something. Chris and I were talking earlier about hitting another place or two downtown before going back to the village. Guang Hong gave me the names of a few clubs we could try out. Wanna come?”

Yuuri looks down at his watch in horror. “Phichit, it’s _two in the morning._ ”

“So?”

“So you’re insane! Don’t you have practice—“

Chris snorts. “Oh, Katsuki, you used to be much more fun than this. Why don’t you tag along and loosen up a bit?”

“I’m loose enough right now, thanks.”

“Come on, it’ll be _fun._ ”

But Yuuri knows what Chris and Phichit’s definition of ‘fun’ is because he’s gone down that road too many times to count, and he could really do without the humiliation and the hangover in the morning, thank you very much. So Yuuri just shakes his head. “No. No way. Not after last time.”

Chris pouts. “Last time was so much fun, though! You did those body shots with—“

“ _Ohgodpleasejustleavealready,”_ he says in a rush, burying his face in his hands. “Please, please, please.”

Phichit doesn’t look upset in the slightest as he stands up and claps Christophe on the shoulder. He heaves a sigh. “Well, I guess it’s you and me, buddy. Just like old times.”

“Indeed.” Chris leaves a hefty tip on the table. As they turn to leave, he waves over his shoulder and calls out, “It was good seeing you, _cheri_. Enjoy the rest of your night—or morning, as it were.”

Yuuri doesn’t allow himself to breathe until the elevators doors are closed and he is all alone at the table. He lets out a breath and clutches at his mostly-empty glass of water with both hands; all the ice has long since melted and the waitress hasn’t been by in a while to refill it. If that isn’t a subtle hint, he doesn’t know what is.

He stands from his chair and grabs his jacket by the collar, slinging it over his shoulder with one hand. He digs in his pockets with his free hand, deposits money on the table (with an _absurdly_ exorbitant tip, but nobody glared at them or spit in their drinks the entire evening, so Yuuri thinks they deserve it for their trouble), and turns to leave. The wait staff bids him a goodnight.

He’s halfway to the elevators when he catches his own reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows that face the terrace. It’s too dark to see past them, but he imagines the view is quite pretty. He wishes he’d gone out there earlier to take a look.

…oh, ideas are _dangerous_ things, indeed.

There’s no tangible, logical reason why Yuuri turns abruptly and makes his way toward one of the heavy glass doors that leads out to the terrace. If someone were to ask him why he suddenly decided to abandon the elevators and a quiet trip back to the village in favor of heading outside into the chill of early February, he would never be able to answer. _I just had a feeling,_ he would say, and everyone would call him crazy.

Maybe he is a little crazy. Maybe he’s okay with that. Maybe he doesn’t care.

He presses his hand against the glass and pushes, ignoring the way the cold bites into the skin of his palm. There is no breeze, but the temperature is bitter enough to make him shiver, his white button-up providing little protection from the elements.

_I’m crazy, I’m crazy, he won’t be out here, what am I doing…_

Except that he’s _not_ crazy, and Yuuri doesn’t know what to make of this revelation.

“Holy sh— _Viktor_?” he calls out, letting the door swing shut behind him with a gentle _thud_. Yuuri rushes over to the far side of the terrace where he’s sitting, phone in one hand and drink lolling dangerously to one side in the other. His eyes are bleary and his hair is mussed, but he looks altogether… unsurprised that Yuuri is approaching him. Odd. “What are you—“

Viktor blinks lethargically up at him. “Mmm _hey_.”

And then the details come into focus: Yuuri sees the string of empty glasses on the bench next to Viktor, the glazed look in his eyes, and the soft flush on his cheeks. He stops dead in his tracks.

Viktor’s drunk. Completely and utterly _drunk_.

Wonderful.

Drunk Viktor makes bad choices and martyrs himself for the sake of drama. Drunk Viktor takes off his clothes at inappropriate times, touches people too much to be socially acceptable, and says brutally honest things that usually hurt more than they help. Drunk Viktor isn’t that different from Sober Viktor, really, save some coordination problems and a tendency to slip into Russian when the alcohol in his blood becomes too much to bear.

Thankfully, Yuuri is an expert at dealing with both—or, he _was_ an expert four years ago. He hopes his skill set isn’t too outdated at this point.

“Oh, Viktor,” Yuuri murmurs sadly. He rubs his temples and chances a brief look around; the rest of the terrace is empty except for them, and the city is unusually quiet eight stories below them—a symptom of the sleeping populace. “Have you been out here the whole time?”

Viktor blinks slowly, like he’s not quite sure what he’s seeing is actually real. He points a lax finger at the far doors of the terrace. “I was in the bathroom for a bit. Dunno how long. S’nicer out here, they’ve got a bench.”

Yuuri stifles a shiver. “You must be freezing.”

“Like you care,” he grumbles, tipping back the remainder of his martini with a sloppy flourish. He sets his empty glass down on the bench next to the others (it takes a few tries for him to get it to stay upright) and aims a narrow-eyed look up at Yuuri from beneath his tangled silver fringe. “M’not cold. Because of the, um—“ he gestures weakly at his flushed cheeks “—the thing. You know. You called it the thingie, whatever it was.”

He frowns. “Your alcohol blanket?”

Viktor snaps his fingers. “Yeah, that. I’m nice and, uh… _toasted warm_.”

“Toasty,” Yuuri corrects quietly, but Viktor doesn’t hear him, or maybe he just doesn’t care. His eyes fall upon Viktor’s pale fingers, which are curled into his palm in his lap and trembling faintly. Yuuri doesn’t stop to second-guess himself as he slips his jacket off his shoulder and hesitantly holds it out.

“Here,” he says quietly. “You’re half-frozen.”

Viktor looks between him and the jacket in Yuuri’s outstretched hand with suspicion. Then he shakes his head. “Don’t want it.”

Yuuri huffs. “Well, fortunately for you, I don’t care. Put it on.”

His face sours. “Hmpf. You got really bossy after you dumped me.”

The air leaves Yuuri’s lungs in a rush.

His arm sags uselessly at his side, jacket still clutched in his hand. “I didn’t—“ he starts, but he shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. _Not the time, not the place._ He thrusts the jacket out again blindly. “Just— just take the damn thing, all right? I’m going to take you back to the village. Don’t argue with me, Viktor.”

“Mm, see?” Viktor asks, his mouth curving into a smile that’s more of a cruel, bent shadow than anything else. He clumsily takes the jacket, but wags a finger at Yuuri and clucks his tongue. “Very bossy. You were _never_ this mean when we—“

 _Stopstopstop._ “We’re not talking about this when you’re drunk.”

“M’not drunk _._ ”

Yuuri lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, and I’m not Japanese. We’re still not going to talk about this.”

And a stark look of abject horror washes over Viktor’s face in an instant. “You’re… not Japanese anymore?” he asks, his voice small and sad. “Yuuri _,_ what _happened?_ ”

 _“_ Oh, Lord,” he mutters. Yuuri’s eyes drift shut and he pinches the bridge of his nose to fend off an incoming headache. Drunk Viktor is also very _literal_ —something Yuuri had forgotten. He tries for a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “I was being sarcastic. I’m still very much a citizen of Japan, don’t worry. Everything is fine, Viktor.”

He lets out a relieved breath and sways dangerously on the bench, clutching the jacket to his chest and crumpling the fabric in his white-knuckled grip. “Oh, you _scared_ me. Don’t do that again!”

Jesus fucking Christ.

It takes some wrangling, but Yuuri manages to drape his jacket over Viktor’s shuddering shoulders with minimal complaint and cursing. He alerts the wait staff to the trail of empty martini glasses outside, settles Viktor’s bill (which is ridiculously high but not wholly surprising—he has always had expensive taste in liquor), and comes back in time to see Viktor snuggling into the depths of Yuuri’s jacket on the bench, curling in on himself to fend off the cold and the rest of the world along with it.

(Yuuri frowns, noticing the dark circles around Viktor’s eyes and the deep lines of strain at the sides of his mouth. Those lines used to be made for smiling.)

One of Yuuri’s heartstrings is pulled taut, ready to snap. He hates it.

Cautiously, Yuuri approaches the bench. “Viktor? Hey, come on,” he tells him softly, holding out a hand once he’s close enough. “There’s a car waiting for us downstairs. Let’s get you inside.”

Viktor warily eyes Yuuri’s hand, almost like he’s convinced that he’ll reach for it and it won’t really be there. Hesitantly, he reaches out and grasps it, fingers curling around and enveloping Yuuri’s smaller hand with familiar ease, and Viktor lets out a sharp breath of relief. Yuuri’s heart hiccups for a second as he pulls Viktor to his feet, _too close_ —then Viktor sways dangerously and Yuuri suddenly has bigger things to worry about than holding hands with his ex-fiancé. God, has he always been this _heavy?_

“What the hell is my life,” Yuuri mutters in Japanese on his way to the elevator. Viktor’s arm is heavy where it’s draped over his shoulders, and he’s fighting a losing battle with gravity. He hits the call button with his foot. “What the _hell._ ”

“Y _uuuuu_ ri,” Viktor whines, leaning in close to Yuuri’s face as they wait for the elevator to arrive. “Speak _English_.”

“Sorry.” He grunts and hoists Viktor’s center of gravity a little higher. He sighs as they wait for the elevator to arrive. He purses his lips. “You know, I offered to teach you Japanese a long time ago. You turned me down.”

“Woulda been too distracted to pay attention,” he hums, lolling his head back. He grins blindly up at the ceiling, but the smile is Cheshire for all the wrong reasons. “Wish I’d done it, though. Made it _so hard_ to watch your interviews. Never knew what you were saying.”

That stupid rubber band heartstring is really starting to bother him now. He swallows. “Oh. You, uh. Watched those?”

Viktor just nods. “Used to. Don’t look so ‘sprised.”

He’s not, because he did the same thing for a while until Minako all but broke his laptop over her knee. “Mm. You don’t watch them anymore?”

“Yura made me stop,” Viktor moans pitifully. “Yelled at me about it for a _looong_ time. Disconnected my internet.” He pauses, thinking hard about something. “He gave it back, like, a month later.”

Yuuri, despite the inebriated Russian man hanging off his shoulder and the downright obscene time of the night, actually manages to smile. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

The elevator dings and slides open, permitting them entry. Once inside and descending, Viktor swivels his head and stares at Yuuri with a serious expression written across his face.

“He misses you.”

Yuuri feels his cheeks heat uncomfortably. He swallows. “I, uh. I miss him, too.”

“He's always liked you more than me.”

Something twists in his stomach, and it feels an awful lot like guilt. “Th-that’s not true,” he stammers, but Viktor is already shaking his head.

“Yes it is. He hates me _soooo_ much,” Viktor wheels his hand in the air. He scowls. “I can’t teach the… um, things. That you taught him. Good things, y’know? Flowy hand stuff and music and whatever.”

Yuuri blinks. “Are you talking about his step sequences?” At Viktor’s nod, Yuuri gives him an incredulous look. “Yurio’s step sequences are fine, Viktor. I saw a video of his performance at the GPF.”

“Yeah, but they’re not _good._ That’s the problem.”

“Well, he more than makes up for it with his ju—“

Abruptly, Viktor heaves a long sigh and melts into Yuuri like a wax candle, molding against him until they’re one solid staggering heap of tangled limbs. Yuuri tries to shift Viktor into a more comfortable (and steady) position—and Yuuri has to swallow a gasp as Viktor presses his closed mouth into the soft juncture of Yuuri’s neck and shoulder like he belongs there. Yuuri nearly drops him in surprise.

_fuckfuckfuck_

“I can’t help Yura, and he hates me for it,” Viktor mumbles miserably, and Yuuri tries not to shudder as his lips brush the sensitive skin of his neck. “S’not… fair.”

Not _fair_?

Yuuri almost laughs. Viktor’s breath is hot against his skin and Yuuri’s trying very hard not to think about how long it’s been since he’s had sex with anybody, much less someone as beautiful as Viktor—or someone who _is_ Viktor—and he has the nerve to talk about things being _unfair._

The universe is laughing at him. He just knows it.

“Well,” Yuuri says slowly, trying not to move Viktor too much because _oh, god,_ every millimeter shift sends sparks skittering down Yuuri’s spine, “if it’s any c-consolation, I think he has more reason to hate me than he does you. So you’ve, uh… got that going for you. Which is nice.”

Dropping his gaze to the patterned carpet beneath his feet, Yuuri bites his lower lip and tries not to feel the way Viktor’s gaze is burning into his skin at unbearably close range. He doesn’t have to turn and look to know that Viktor’s giving him that… that _look_ from earlier. The look he’d had right before he jumped up and left the table with a flimsy excuse on his lips and the singular goal of getting heinously drunk out on the terrace.

It’s a look of doubt. Disbelief.

Yuuri doesn’t want any of it.

They reach the main floor and the elevator doors open wide. The lobby is empty, lights half-dim and casting hollow grey shadows on the lavishly-decorated walls.

“Come on,” Yuuri says quietly, hobbling toward the lobby doors with Viktor sagging heavily at his side. “Car’s waiting.”

 

* * *

 

( _I have had my vision.)_

 

* * *

 

The car ride home is… fascinating, to say the least.

Yuuri somehow manages to pour Viktor’s boneless body into the backseat of the car with minimal injuries—Viktor bangs his elbow and his knee on the way in, and he drops some creative Russian curses that sound more like garbled nonsense than anything else, but at least he’s _in_ the car and not sprawled out on the pavement, so Yuuri thinks he’s doing all right.

Yuuri slides in after him, tells the driver to take them to the village, and they’re off.

It only takes about ten seconds for Viktor to realize that he’s cold all of a sudden and his hands are too unsteady to buckle his seatbelt, so he happily drapes himself across Yuuri’s lap and buries his face in the pliant muscles of Yuuri’s stomach, legs splayed out across the length of the backseat like he owns it. He murmurs soft Russian words against Yuuri’s shirtfront and bunches the thin white fabric in his hands, trying to get a better grip on him as they take sharp corners and merge onto the freeway.

It’s like he’s actually trying to give Yuuri a heart attack.

Even worse: it’s _working._

Yuuri remains stiff as a board, lips thin as he tries his best not to move a muscle throughout the duration of the trip. His heart stutters a staccato beat every time Viktor sighs in drunken contentment, every time his fingers dig into the soft flesh of Yuuri’s sides, every time Viktor does _anything at all._ It’s maddening.

“You always smell so nice,” Viktor hums at one point, and Yuuri just about dies on the spot.

It feels like years before they finally make it back to the village, and Yuuri’s about ready to jump out his skin by the time the car deposits them on the sidewalk. Multicolored streamers, cheap copies of flags on little wooden sticks, and an unhealthy amount of glitter all cover the walkways in varying amounts—remnants of the athletes’ after-party, no doubt. They steer clear of the glitter and try not to trip.

By the time they reach their building and make it to the tenth floor, Viktor has his arms around Yuuri’s neck and is babbling senselessly in a mixture of Russian, English, and French. There’s even a little bit of German in there, and Yuuri absently wonders when he picked that up.

Yuuri is breathing hard, staggering beneath Viktor’s weight as they finally reach his door. “Viktor, I need your key.” Viktor buries his face in Yuuri’s shoulder again and mumbles something unintelligible. “What? Speak up—”

“Back pocket,” comes his clearer reply.

He tightens his grip around Viktor’s waist. “Okay. Um. Can you get it out?” he tries, voice hopeful.

“ _Je veux que tu le fasses_ ,” he mumbles, and Yuuri knows just enough French to understand that Viktor wants him to do it himself.

“You can’t form full sentences in English, but of _course_ you can manage perfect French when you’re plastered. Why am I even remotely surprised?” he grumbles in Japanese. Yuuri adjusts Viktor so he’s leaning more steadily against him, freeing up one of his hands to go digging for the keycard. He sends up a silent, jubilant _oh-my-god-thank-you_ when his fingers find Viktor’s back pocket and the keycard on their first try—muscle memory is a hell of a thing.

He slips the keycard into the slot and pushes the door open with his foot unceremoniously, both of them slipping through the doorway on clumsy, sore feet.

Viktor’s room is—messy, and that’s Yuuri’s first clue that something’s not quite right. Viktor’s bags are piled in the corner, clothes stacked haphazardly and not even remotely close to being folded. Wrinkles abound on his most expensive shirts and his designer shoes are just sort of scattered around the room in random places. Yuuri glances sidelong at the open closet on the far wall—he spies a hundred empty hangers and an unused shoe rack inside.

Viktor always used to get on Yuuri’s case for not hanging up his shirts as soon as they were done drying. If it weren’t for the Team Russia jacket draped over the lamp (the _lamp?_ ), Yuuri would think they’re in the wrong room. _Weird._

After some strategic positioning, Yuuri lets Viktor slip from his grasp. Viktor falls onto the mattress with a sigh and immediately curls up into a ball, knees hugged to his chest and eyes closed in unabashed bliss. He’s asleep before Yuuri can even catch his breath.

Objectively, Yuuri knows he should go back to his room. He should let Viktor drift into his dreams and never speak of this event again because, dammit, that’s what they _do._ They hand out fake smiles like candy and dance around each other like it’s an Olympic sport—which it sort of is, now that Yuuri thinks about it. After four years of the same thing over and over again, Yuuri should be more than willing to do his part and stick to the plan they unwittingly laid out for themselves in PyeongChang all those years ago—

He stoops down low to take off Viktor’s shoes anyway. He places them in the closet on the shoe rack, perfectly parallel to one another. There, _now_ he can leave.

…then he dips into the bathroom to grab a glass of water and some aspirin, which he sets on the nightstand for Viktor to find in the morning.

He also plugs in Viktor’s phone because what if Yurio tries to call him tomorrow? It’s only practical.

He’s just being nice, he tells himself. _Just being nice._

(He’s never been a good liar.)

Yuuri is in the middle of lifting the comforter over Viktor’s prone form (because Viktor always gets cold when he’s hungover, and Yuuri wants him to be prepared come morning) when he hears his name, softer than a prayer and twice as reverent. He looks down to see Viktor watching him with his sea-blue eyes that aren’t as murky as they were when they left the restaurant. His blood freezes in his veins.

He knows he should feel the cold grip of panic like a vice around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. He should feel embarrassed that Viktor has caught him in the midst of indulging himself so pathetically. He should feel _something_ —anything other than the gentle tug of yearning in the vacant chambers of his heart as he tumbles headfirst into those endless eyes.

“God, I miss you so much,” Viktor breathes, and his voice is so small and broken that Yuuri feels his heartstrings snapping one by one in his chest.

Yuuri curls his fingers into the comforter.

_Do I dare?_

He makes a choice. Damn the consequences.

“Go to sleep, Vitya,” he finally whispers, smiling softly despite the shattered glass in his throat. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

 

_(He’s never been a good liar.)_

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It broke my heart to write this, which means it probably hit you guys like a sack of bricks. I tend to be pretty emotionless about what I churn out every week, but this... Well. This was a fun one to write, I'll just leave it at that. 
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos! They make me happier than you will ever know. Also, shout-out to the person who's bookmark summary for this story is just "oh SHIT." Made my day. 
> 
> Leave me a comment with your favorite line/metaphor/description/whatever. The more I know about what hits home with you guys, the more I can direct my writing. It's all about you, in the end.
> 
> Next up: Yuuri finds Yuri and they do Yu(u)ri things together. Harper and Viktor have a conversation. Scarves will be mentioned because I couldn't fit it in this one. Team skate: take two? I dunno. I'm making this up as I go along. Pretty sure that's obvious.


	14. part of you died each year when the leaves fell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted in honor of AnthuriumInvidia, who writes pretty cool comments and reminds me to get my ass in gear when I get lazy. Her birthday is also coming up, so I felt a little extra motivated to post this early. Happy early birthday! WOOHOO. 
> 
> As a bonus, this is the longest chapter yet. Bless your souls. xoxo

* * *

 

_February 15, 2018 — PyeongChang, South Korea_

 

_It is two in the morning, and Yuri Plisetsky knows something is very, very wrong._

_He doesn’t know what tips him off about it in the first place. With the bright, flashing lights and bass-heavy music of the medal ceremony after-party, it’s hard to notice anything other than the way Yuri’s teeth are vibrating in time with the beat. It’s loud and hot and he really doesn’t like the press of people around him, if he’s being completely honest, but he’s sixteen and tipsy at an adult party so fuck you if you think he’s going to ditch._

_Something niggles at the back of his mind. Poking and prodding gently, tickling. It reminds him that oh, yeah, Russia_ lost _tonight and Viktor and Katsudon are acting really fucking weird for no quantifiable reason at all. Despite the good time he’s supposed to be having at this party, he knows there’s something seriously… off._

_He just has no idea what it is._

_Over the rim of his plastic cup of who-gives-a-shit, Yuri subtly glances around the pulsing room of athletes to figure out what’s bothering him so much. He may not be the most observant guy on the planet, but he has fucking_ eyes _and he knows how to use them._

_Maybe he’s jittery because Viktor stopped answering his texts an hour ago, or maybe it’s because nobody’s seen Katsudon since he stormed out of the kiss and cry at the free skate with tears in his eyes and a mumbled something on his lips that made Viktor’s face crumple so spectacularly. Maybe it’s because Mila keeps checking her phone every three minutes with a worried crease between her brows. Hell, even Georgi is biting his lower lip and glancing at the ballroom doors nervously like he’s expecting Viktor or Katsudon to come waltzing in fashionably late—but it’s a little too late to be considered fashionable, even for someone like Viktor Nikiforov._

_It feels like the entirety of Team Russia is holding their breath at the apex of an axel, tucking in tightly and waiting to see if they’ll stick the landing or come crashing down on their faces—which, as Yuri recalls Viktor’s shitty free skate program from earlier, is a rather appropriate metaphor for the situation, all things considered._

_Maybe he should go upstairs and check on the old bastard, just in case._

_…Fuck. He_ must _be tipsy, because that’s exactly what he does._

 

* * *

 

He really hates that nightmare.

The sound of Yuri’s alarm pulls him from the murky depths of his dreams and deposits him on the sun-warmed sheets of his bed in a tangle of limbs and flaxen hair that’s a little too long for his liking. Blindly, he reaches over and hits the snooze button with a groan. He’s supposed to meet Viktor at the Olympic rink for practice in an hour, but after that stupid party last night, he’s not sure he’s willing to do much of anything besides sleep for the next fifteen years of his life. God, what _happened_ last night?

He has… fragments here and there. Pieces of a puzzle too large, snippets of noise and heat and deafening music that, when put together, don’t make a whole lot of sense. He remembers Beka’s firm fingers curled around his wrist and the press of athletic bodies around them. He remembers Mila’s wild dancing and the way she’d shoved a glass of _something_ into his hands with a smile so bright it made the strobe lights look dim in comparison.

His feet are slightly sore, so Yuri knows he must’ve danced at some point during the night, or maybe he decided to pursue a brief career in Irish step-dancing. His tongue also feels like he’s licked carpeting and gargled with sawdust. There’s an ache in his joints that screams _hangover._

Yuri groans and settles back into the depths of his pillow, ignoring the strands of hair that are stuck to his dry lips. Fuck it—he’s not going to practice. No, he’s going to stay right here and die a slow, painful death because Tylenol is only so powerful and it’s not like he had anything better planned anyway.

Besides, Viktor’s been acting weird since they arrived in Beijing and Yuri’s not about to deal with that shit at six in the goddamn morning, thank you very much. He has _principles._

Otabek has other ideas.

“Yura,” he says, his voice sleep-thickened and just on this side of sexy as he drags out the vowels of his name. Yuri feels a soft, searing heat press against his back and wrap around his waist, strong and sure and so very, very familiar. “Yura, you have to get up.”

“ _Mmm_ fuckoff,” he mutters, settling back against Beka’s chest. “Comfy.”

A breathy exhale, a musical almost-laugh. Hot air ghosts over Yuri’s shoulder, light as feathers. “The team skate is tomorrow. Go to practice.”

“Don’t care. Gonna win anyway.”

“Mm,” he hums thoughtfully. “You always act cocky when you’re nervous, you know that?”

Yuri reaches down to pinch the olive skin of Beka’s forearm. He doesn’t flinch, but the resounding hiss of air sucked between teeth brings a smug smile to Yuri’s sleepy face. “M’not nervous,” he mumbles. “Just stating a fact.”

Otabek hums lowly and the vibration skitters down Yuri’s spine, reminding him of the amazing fact that they’re both naked and Beka’s a fucking _furnace_ first thing in the morning, which isn’t a bad thing in the dead of winter. Quite the opposite, actually. Yuri would much rather remain wrapped up in the sheets with the bitter remnants of alcohol in his blood than practice his quad flip for the millionth time while Viktor pretends to care. It’s hardly even a choice—

Except that Russia’s pride is riding on his shoulders and he knows he actually has to go to practice this morning, hangover or no hangover.

 _God_. Responsibility sucks ass.

“Five more minutes,” he finally whispers, entangling their legs beneath the sheets in silent invitation. “Then I’ll go. Promise.”

In the end, Yuri hits the snooze button twice, allowing himself exactly eighteen more minutes of floating in somnolent limbo. He uses the first three minutes for general grunting and complaining—his head hurts, the sun’s too damn bright, Otabek’s squeezing the air out of his lungs, cut that shit out before he _dies_ —but the remaining fifteen minutes are used for lazy kisses and gentle touches that complement the hesitant temperament of early morning.

Beka paints secrets into Yuri’s skin with the flat of his tongue while Yuri maps out previously-explored territory with the tips of his fingers, reading the freckles on Beka’s shoulders like they’re braille and he can understand every single letter. It’s a selfish use of time, Yuri knows, but hey. Charitable is something he’s never claimed to be.

Eighteen minutes pass them by far too quickly. It’s not fucking fair, not at all.

“All right, all right, I’m going,” he mumbles against Otabek’s lips, pushing lightly at his shoulders. They separate long enough for Yuri to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and sit up, running his fingers through the tangles of his hair. He casts a scowl over his shoulder when he feels warm fingers press into the skin of his waist; Yuri swats at him. “Jesus, Beka, you’re thirsty as hell this morning.”

Otabek lifts himself up on one elbow, the white cotton sheet slipping low around his hips, and raises one eyebrow in silent challenge. The sun reflects gold off his skin and his hair is rumpled with sleep and—oh, _screw_ patriotism _._ Viktor can wait another hour or three. Yuri’s got better things to do.

 

* * *

 

_February 15, 2018 — PyeongChang, South Korea_

_Yuri finds Viktor on the floor of his room, back leaned up against the foot of the bed he shares with Katsudon and a vacant look on his face. He’s got his knees pulled up to his chest and his hands are shaking, the left one clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles are bloodless beneath taut skin. He’s staring at the wall, but Yuri is pretty sure he’s not seeing anything at all._

_He’s also crying._

_Viktor never cries._

_Yuri’s a lot of things, but he’s not an idiot, no matter what anyone else says. Even with the pleasant buzz of alcohol in his system, he’s sharp enough to notice the empty closet nearest to the bed, the turned-out drawers of the dresser, and the mysterious lack of Katsudon’s suitcase in the furthest corner of the room. He doesn’t have to see the ring clutched in the recesses of Viktor’s hand to realize what’s happened, doesn’t have to hear the story Viktor feeds him through the endless deluge of silent, quicksilver tears—he_ knows _, dammit._

 _But knowing doesn’t stop him from feeling like he’s been kicked in the chest with a freshly-sharpened skate. It doesn’t stop him from leaning heavily against the doorframe to keep Viktor from noticing the way his knees are shaking. It doesn’t stop the deafening inner torrent of_ why why why wouldn’t he say goodbye _and_ he’s just like mom, that bastard, I’ll fucking _kill_ him.

_Knowing doesn’t help at all, really._

 

* * *

 

Yuri somehow manages to make it to the rink with forty minutes left in his practice slot. He’s a mess of tangled hair and limbs and his skin is peppered with half-moon love bites, but he’s _there_ and that should count for something, right? Even if he is an hour and twenty minutes late.

He tries to act surprised when Viktor isn’t waiting for him at the far end of the rink where they always meet for practice—really, he does—but Yuri’s never been a good actor and he’s not exactly turning over a new leaf today, so whatever. If Viktor’s too apathetic to show up this morning, that’s fine. It’s always _fine._ He knows better at this point than to mope and whine about it, so instead he grits his teeth and soldiers on, chin held high in front of the few athletes who have yet to retreat to the off-ice practice room for the remainder of their slot.

 _Yeah,_ he thinks smugly, eyeing a few of the younger no-name skaters who probably won’t even break the top twenty in the final. _You should all be scared of me._ Yuri’s leagues ahead of these assholes, whoever they are, and coach or no coach, he’s the goddamn Ice Tiger of Russia. No one’s going to take that gold from him. _No one._

Yuri yanks his hair up into a messy knot, flinching when his fingers tear through the knots and snarls leftover from this morning’s little romp with Beka. He stretches, yanks his skates on, and gets moving because that’s what he’s good at. He’s got a fucking Ph.D. in moving fast enough that he can’t see the fine details of his life, all the missing pieces, the hairline cracks in his career that have been steadily growing wider since the start of the season. The diploma might as well be pinned on his bedroom wall right above the door.

 _I will win this,_ he thinks as he lands a triple axel.

 _I will redeem my country,_ he thinks as he launches into a quad Lutz-triple toe combination.

 _I will shove my medal down Okukawa’s throat until he shits gold,_ he thinks as he pulls off a perfect quad flip.

…And then Yuri executes a rather shitty step sequence, and he no longer feels very confident about much of anything.

“Fuck,” he hisses, stabbing his toe pick into the ice to push off into a brief twizzle with a little more force than necessary. He scowls down at his feet, forcing them to fulfil the remaining requirements of the step sequence he’s been having trouble with. He knows his footwork is solid enough, but the rest of his movements just don’t… flow. He goes through the motions stiffly, and while he’s not quite sure how it looks from the outside, he knows for damn sure it doesn’t _feel_ good _,_ and that’s enough to piss him off.

He’s never had this much trouble with step sequences before, and he’s not sure where to place the blame. Part of him wants to put it all on the ISU for changing the rules last spring and allowing more complex, risky moves in competition programs; they’ve blurred the line between the exhibition gala and both the short and free programs and nobody really knows what to do about it anymore. Another part of Yuri wants to blame Lilia for not changing with the times like everyone else—she’s a great ballet teacher, obviously, but it’s like she’s perpetually stuck in 1973 and it’s starting to show.

Part of him blames himself. Another part of him blames Katsudon—

He tries not to think about Katsudon.

Yuri rubs his temples as he traces lazy figures into the ice. If Viktor were here, he’d probably give some vague advice about _feeling_ and _emotion_ and Yuri would try not to vomit in his own mouth because _ugh._ And it’s not like Viktor’s capable of showing Yuri how to do the step sequences himself; the man skates with about as much enthusiasm as a wet paper towel these days. It’s pathetic. (And a bit concerning, but Yuri will never, _ever_ admit that to anyone. Not even to Otabek.)

Viktor’s good with jumps and hot, steamy garbage with his step sequences. They were decent a few years ago before he retired, but now he’s just a dusty Russian antique on a high shelf: cool to look at from a distance, but the second you take it down, dust it off, and try to use it for its intended purpose, it reminds you that there’s a reason it became outdated in the first place.

Yuri glances at the bright red block numbers on the jumbotron above his head and scowls. He only has ten minutes left before the next group of skaters comes in and he’s accomplished jack shit. Great.

He’s going to fail the team skate tomorrow.

Yuri heaves a sigh through his nose and leans into a wide bracket turn that drips with self-loathing and faint traces of frustration. He swivels his skate into a quick change-foot spin and twirls across the ice, lifting his chin toward the ceiling and closing his eyes as if to block out the rest of the world. He tries to tap into those emotions he used to display so prominently on the ice. He _knows_ he’s close to figuring it out, but he’s missing some important key to the puzzle and—

“You know you shouldn’t skate with your hair like that.”

Yuri stumbles forward with a squawk, flinching because he is suddenly very aware that he’s about to eat shit in front of everyone and their mothers, but right before he pitches forward and past the point of no return, strong hands manage to grip his shoulders and keep him upright.

Katsudon is smiling faintly, one corner of his mouth quirked up wryly. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Thought you heard me coming.”

_(Yuri Plisetsky is sixteen years old and betrayed.)_

He doesn’t even think about it. Yuri rips himself out of Katsudon’s grip and slides back a few feet across the ice, heart hammering in his chest—but not with nerves, oh no. With _rage._

“What the _fuck,_ ” he spits. He knows his glare is menacing enough to make small children cry and he’s sort of hoping for the same result here, but Katsudon only looks vaguely saddened by Yuri’s reaction.

He’s wearing his black track pants and a long-sleeved blue t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, glasses perched on his nose. He also looks incredibly twitchy, but that’s old news. Katsudon’s always been a trash bag full of nerves for no reason at all.

“Your, uh… hair,” is what he says, eyes tight around the edges like he’s bracing himself. “It’s a lot longer than it used to be. It’s dangerous—“

“Don’t,” Yuri bites out. He’s seething through clenched teeth and his heart is pounding _,_ and he refuses to think about why. “Don’t you _dare._ You have no right to… to _speak_ to me. Ever. _”_

Katsudon frowns faintly, his eyes softening around the edges. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Yurio.”

“Little late for that, isn’t it?”

Yuri wishes he could stuff the words back into his mouth and keep them hidden with all the rest, but it’s too late for that now. He does his best to keep his face blank.

Katsudon’s eyes briefly flick to the mostly-faded bruise around his eye and his mouth curves downward at the corners. “If I could go back and stop Sutemi from hitting you, I would,” he says quietly. “I want you to know that.”

 _That isn’t what I meant,_ he thinks, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. Yuri’s lungs are fighting against the confines of his ribcage and it hurts, but the past few years have given him a higher pain tolerance than most. He can deal. Yuri simply scoffs and tucks a few stray strands of hair behind his ear, crossing his arms over his chest. “Whatever. It’s not like I give a shit what people think of me—especially that asshole you call a student.”

Yuuri looks pained for a brief moment. “Yuri—“

“Look, what the hell do you _want_?” he cuts in suddenly, glaring as harshly as he can. “You’re wasting my fucking practice time. If you’re looking for Viktor, he’s not here, and don’t ask me where he is because I don’t know. Don’t care, either.”

Katsudon’s eyes dart away for a brief moment and he bites his lower lip. A crease appears between his brows. “Actually… I was looking for you.”

Yuri blinks. His heart stutters and he feels faintly nauseated. “Wh— why?”

Yuuri pushes off the ice and skates closer, coming to a soft stop barely two feet away from him. His smile is soft and warm and the _same_ as it always was back in St. Petersburg, and Yuri feels his joints freeze up against his will.

“Viktor told me you were having trouble with your step sequences,” Katsudon explains slowly, carefully. “I figured I could help. Offer an outside opinion, give a few tips.”

_(he’s sixteen he’s sixteen he’s sixteen)_

“Bullshit,” is what Yuri manages to say through numb lips. He shakes his head and recoils belatedly as the implications of Katsudon’s words sink in. “Bull _shit._ Viktor would never talk to you. You’re lying.”

He almost misses the way Katsudon’s flinches. His eyes drop to the ice. “I’ve never lied to you before. I wouldn’t start now.”

“Wouldn’t you?” he snaps. Rage blisters beneath his skin, threatening to char, and he clenches his fists. “It’s not like you gave a shit about me four years ago, so don’t even try to _pretend_ to give a shit now. I’m not stupid.”

Yuuri either doesn’t feel the heat or he’s doing a damn good job of pretending not to notice it. His face is pale, eyes reflecting regret and a thousand other useless emotions Yuri doesn’t care about. “I’ve never thought you were stupid. I _do_ care, Yura—“

Fists clench. “Don’t call me that! You don’t have the fucking _right_ —“

“ _Yuri_ ,” he snaps, and his voice is sharp enough to cut the boy off mid-sentence. Yuri stares wide-eyed and frozen as Katsudon runs a hand over his weary face. He slumps his shoulders, sending a defeated sigh in the direction of the ice. Yuri notices the bags beneath his eyes—he hasn’t been sleeping well lately, obviously, and Yuri tries not to wonder why. He tries not to care.

They endure a few seconds of silence. Yuri wants to scream through the static, rip it to shreds, and run away because that’s what he’s good at.

Katsudon swallows. “Listen, I know you’re angry,” he begins quietly, his voice hollow and unfamiliar. “You’re angry with me and you’re angry with Sutemi, and I don’t blame you for any of it. You have every right to be upset. I’m not trying to take that away from you. A-and I know nothing I can do will ever be able to fix this—“ he gestures between them vaguely “— _thing_ between us. I’m pretty sure I burned that bridge a long time ago. It’s just that Viktor mentioned you were having trouble with your step sequences, and I couldn’t…” he lets out a sharp breath that almost sounds like the echo of a bitter laugh. “God, I couldn’t just ignore something like that, even if I wanted to.”

Yuri’s mouth is dry and his heart is threatening to pound out of his chest. _Not real, not real, he’s lying_ his mind tells him. He can’t stop listening. He wants to stop. He can’t.

Katsudon takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, meeting Yuri’s stunned gaze head on. He’s smiling sadly, almost like he’s not spewing lies and he actually means what he’s saying.

“I came here to help you, if you’ll let me,” he murmurs. “I think I owe you that much.”

_(Yuri Plisetsky is twenty years old and doesn’t believe in fairytales.)_

_(Or is he sixteen? He’s not sure anymore.)_

Yuri feels like someone’s taken a hatchet to his sternum. He has half a mind to pinch himself because he’s had this dream before and he doesn’t want to see how it ends (because he _knows_ how it ends, dammit, and he doesn’t need to be reminded). He wants—

Well. He wants a lot of things, but he knows he can’t have all of them, or even most of them. The world simply isn’t that kind to him. Never has been, never will be.

Yuri’s fingers are shaking at his side. He’s opening his mouth and no sound is coming out. He’s trying to breathe.

He’s also out of time.

The jumbotron above their head blares bright red numbers that scream _too late, too late, always too late._ Both he and Katsudon look up to see the truth—Yuri’s practice slot has ended and he needs to make room for the next batch of skaters. He lets out a shuddering breath, suddenly aware of just how cold he is.

Katsudon purses his lips in thought, frowning at the numbers on the clock. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and taps his toe pick against the ice. “I’ll give you some time to think about it. No need to make a decision now. If you do decide you want some help, I’ll be here tonight after the speed skating event around nine-thirty, all right?”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He watches in silence as Yuuri swivels on his blades and begins to leisurely skate toward the boards on the far end of the rink, hands still stuffed in his pockets.

Yuri surprises himself with his own voice.

“And if I don’t?” he suddenly calls out, his voice echoing around the rink. “What then, huh?”

Katsudon comes to a gentle stop and looks over his shoulder, eyes twinkling ruefully. “Then I guess I’ll wait up for you anyway.”

 

* * *

 

_(Sometimes he wishes he’d never gone upstairs to check on Viktor. Sometime he wishes he’d left the party sooner. But most days, he just wishes he could forget the whole fucking thing.)_

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take any time at all for Viktor to realize where he is when he awakens in the morning. There’s no delay, no sense of misdirection, no missing pieces—nothing so film-worthy or cliché. No, he knows exactly where he is and what happened last night.

But _god,_ he really wishes he didn’t.

He remembers slipping away from the table and hiding in the bathroom, hands pressed against the cold porcelain of the sink, nails scrabbling for purchase they ultimately didn’t find. He remembers coming back out with every intention of sitting back down and being a responsible adult about everything, but then he saw Yuuri sitting next to Dr. Ingram, frowning down into his glass like the ice cubes were whispering stories only he could understand, and every last wisp of Viktor’s courage evaporated in a second. He remembers hiding out on the terrace for the rest of the night, choosing instead to freeze his ass off in silent martyrdom because he always gets a little dramatic when he’s drunk and it had seemed like a _great_ idea after the third martini.

He recalls Yuuri in full-blown Technicolor after that, with his tousled hair and his warm eyes and gentle, platonic touches. They talked about… _something_ out on the terrace. He can’t put his finger on what exactly, but he hopes it had been an innocuous enough topic of conversation, for Yuuri’s sake if not his own. He racks his brain for more. There was a car ride after that and lots of touching and _holy shit am I really this pathetic?_ Thinking about the way he’d draped himself over Yuuri in the backseat of that car, the answer is obviously _yes_ , in every definition of the word.

Viktor’s room is cold but his face blisters. He glances sidelong at his bedside table where two aspirin and a glass of water rest, laid out like an offering meant for someone much more deserving than Viktor. He spots his shoes on the rack across the room, perfectly placed and lined up with no small amount of care. The tightness around his shoulders also reminds him that he’s wearing Yuuri’s jacket. He hadn’t given it back at the end of the night, choosing instead to fall asleep in the damn thing like he owned it.

“No, no, _no,”_ he murmurs pitifully. He doesn’t want to believe the rest—he’d rather it have been a nightmare, the worst nightmare he’s ever had—but he’s always been a rather lucid drunk, so he knows better than to dismiss the afterimages burned into the backs of his eyelids.

_“Go to sleep, Vitya. You’ll feel better in the morning.”_

Yuuri had called him Vitya.

Yuuri had smiled and tucked him in and _called him Vitya._

Just—

_Fuck._

A thought occurs to him suddenly and his eyes snap open wide. He lurches to the right and scrambles wildly before slipping his hand beneath the pillow on the furthest side of the bed—

His hand closes around Yuuri’s scarf. Viktor breathes out a sigh of relief and tries not to vomit at the same time. God, if Yuuri had found the scarf last night, Viktor’s pretty sure he’d never be able to face the Japanese coach again. Relaxing a bit, he sinks back down into the soft bed and tries to regulate his heartbeat. _It’s fine, everything is fine._

A splitting headache has taken up residence behind his eyes and he winces, pressing the heels of his hands against them to staunch a wound that isn’t there. The sunlight slanting through his window is too steeply angled and much too bright; a quick glance at the clock tells him that it’s almost… _noon?_

“ _Shit_.” Viktor suddenly flails and pitches to one side, rolling out of bed and landing on the floor in a heap of heavy limbs and sore joints. He scrambles for his phone and rips it off the charger, squinting down at the display with over-sensitive eyes.

Oh. There are no notifications. That’s… not good.

Gritting his teeth against a wave of nausea, Viktor braces a hand against the bedside table and goes to haul himself up to his feet. He needs to get ready, needs to check on Yurio, see if they can reschedule their practice because he’s literally the worst coach _ever._ There’s a running list of things he has to do before the team skate tomorrow, and every bullet point is more daunting than the last. He strips Yuuri’s jacket, taking care not to stretch it out any more than he already has, and places it on a hanger in his empty closet before turning toward the bathroom with thoughts of hot, steaming water.

He readies himself in record time to keep his mind from wandering down dangerous paths paved with polished stones of _he called me Vitya_ and _I don’t know what to do with this information._ It’s been so long since he’s heard anyone call him by his diminutive, and it’s really… confusing. Refreshing. Horrible. _Wonderful_. Viktor’s emotions twist and turn around one another in his chest, leaving a slurry of something too endless and vast for him to understand, so he stops himself from trying. Later, later, later. There will be time for that sort of thing _later._

With his hair freshly styled and painkillers in his stomach, Viktor snatches up his ID badge and his Team Russia jacket before heading for the door. But at the last second, he stops short, his fingers curled around the knob.

Before he can doubt himself too much, Viktor turns and snatches Yuuri’s rumpled jacket off its hanger before storming out of his room. He’s turning in the opposite direction of the elevators before he can convince himself that this is a truly terrible idea that is more than likely to end in tears.

Viktor’s fingers tighten in the expensive material of the jacket as he approaches Yuuri’s door. The hallway is quiet, probably because all the other athletes are out practicing, doing interviews, or attending other events. He wonders if Yuuri will even be in his room when he gets there. Part of Viktor hopes not, but another part of him wants _answers_ , dammit, even if he doesn’t know what the questions are in the first place.

_He called me Vitya._

Viktor knocks three times, rapping a quick, nervous staccato. He waits.

The second he sees a shadow pass beneath the tiny crack in the door, his heart crawls into his throat. Doubt seeps in and bores holes into the soft surface of his heart. He shouldn’t have done this, he shouldn’t have knocked. Maybe if he runs now he can—

The door whips open.

Dr. Ingram looks about as stunned as Viktor feels. Her eyes are wide behind a pair of thick-framed glasses and her hair is piled on top of her head messily. She’s the epitome of the effortless just-rolled-out-of-bed aesthetic. Something hot and achingly unfamiliar curls low in the pit of his stomach, coiled and ready to strike.

He’s never been the jealous type before, but then again, he’s never really had a reason—not a reason that looks like Harper, anyway.

“Mr. Nikiforov,” she greets flatly, eyebrows creasing. She glances sidelong down the hallway and sees that they’re alone. “Um. Can I help you with something?”

“No,” he says automatically. His fingers are curled in the fabric of Yuuri’s jacket and shaking ever so slightly. This was stupid, he shouldn’t have come here. He needs to _leave._ “Wrong room. Sorry.”

He turns to leave, but she stops him with a sharp, “You’re looking for Yuuri, aren’t you?”

He stiffens. Jaw clenches. “I really don’t think that’s any of your business, Miss Ingram.”

“Doctor,” she corrects, and crosses her arms over her chest. She looks distinctly unimpressed, and the pinched look on her face fills Viktor with a sick sort of pride. “It’s _Doctor_ Ingram. I worked hard for my medical degree and I’d appreciate it if you actually acknowledged that. If you don’t mind.”

He does mind, actually. He really, really minds.

Viktor smiles saccharinely. “Of course, _Doctor._ My apologies.”

She purses her lips and leans a shoulder against the doorframe. “Thanks. And if you are looking for Yuuri, then yeah, I’d like to think that it is my business. What do you need?”

Viktor fights to keep the smile on his face, but he knows it’s growing thin. “This is his jacket. He left it with me last night, and I was hoping to return it to him.” He holds it out to punctuate his sentence, secretly reveling in the way she blinks rapidly at the limp fabric like she can’t believe her eyes.

“Oh,” she says. She swallows audibly. “Um. Well, he’s not here right now, but I can take it. He’s at practice with ‘Temi right now.” She holds out a hand, palm up.

Despite the logical side of his brain telling him to put the damn jacket in her hand and walk away, he hesitates. Some masochistic part of himself had hoped he’d be able to talk to Yuuri about what happened last night. After a moment’s deliberation, however, he relents and gives her the crumpled jacket, being careful not to touch her fingers.

Viktor knows it’s petty. He knows it doesn’t make much sense. He knows he has no claim over Yuuri, especially in the face of this all-American beauty with a medical degree and three-ish years of friendship with Yuuri under her belt. He _knows._

(He checks for the presence of a ring on the woman’s elegant finger anyway. He doesn’t find one, and he breathes a little easier.)

“I’ll make sure he gets this,” Harper says awkwardly, folding the jacket over one of her freckled forearms. “Thanks, I guess—“

“Are you and Yuuri dating?”

Harper’s mouth drops open at the question and her cheeks turn faintly pink, but half a second later her expression is just as cool and impassive as it was before. “I-I don’t see how that’s _any_ of your business,” she parrots back at him, her voice flat. “Like, at all.”

Viktor lifts an eyebrow. “So that’s a yes, then.”

“I said it’s none of your business.”

“So you’re _not_ dating?”

“ _It’s none of your business.”_

“It’s a simple yes-or-no question, Dr. Ingram. It’s not exactly difficult to answer.”

“Why do you even care?” she asks sharply, genuinely looking confused. She cocks her head to one side and rakes her gaze over his face, searching him thoroughly—and Viktor fights back a shiver because she makes him feel like he’s as transparent as glass and he _hates_ it.

“I don’t,” he lies easily, shifting in discomfort. “I’m just morbidly curious, is all.”

She hums lowly like she doesn’t believe him, which isn’t all that surprising. He’s not a very good liar when it comes to things about Yuuri, and Harper seems more perceptive than most. She doesn’t say anything for several seconds as her gaze roves over his face.

“I just can’t figure you out,” she whispers. A deep frown mars her features and she shakes her head slowly from side to side like she can’t put together the puzzle Viktor’s laid before her. “What… what is your angle? Explain it to me.”

He blinks uncomprehendingly. “My angle?”

“What do you _want_ from Yuuri?” she clarifies, her voice stained with genuine perplexity. She counts off on her fingers as she lists, “You don’t seem like the type to sabotage his coaching, so your intentions probably aren’t totally evil, but you also called him a liar that night in Plisetsky’s room, so you obviously don’t like him very much. Then, out of nowhere, you turn around and drop everything to help him with a panic attack like you’re goddamn Mother Teresa?” She scoffs under her breath in disbelief and recoils a few inches. “Either you’re a total nutcase or you’ve got some kind of ulterior motive that I just can’t see, and it’s seriously starting to worry me.”

Viktor stands stock-still, arms crossed over his chest. There are finespun cracks in his façade and he’s doing a good job of keeping them from spreading, but his grip is tenuous at best. Harper is a lot more perceptive than he originally thought.

“I’m simply returning a borrowed jacket,” he says flatly. “No need to make mountains out of molehills.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I simply think you’re a little paranoid.”

She spears him with a withering glare that sharpens her features into something that could cut. “I think I’ve got a pretty good reason to be paranoid.” She bites her lip and drops her gaze to the carpet beneath her socked feet. “I didn’t tell Yuuri what you said that night, you know. Now I’m starting to think that maybe I should have.”

Her words strike him somewhere between his ribs, and the pain feels almost like shame. He tamps down the strange feeling to deal with it at a later date. “Lying isn’t healthy in a relationship, Dr. Ingram. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Yeah, you’re an expert on lying, aren’t you?”

“I’m the expert on a lot of things relating to Yuuri, actually.”

“For fuck’s sake—“ she rubs a hand over her face and groans in frustration. “Are you really this petty? I’m trying to _protect_ him!”

“Oh, how _noble_ of you,” Viktor sneers. “Really, your sacrifice is so admirable.”

Harper flinches at his venomous tone, but she returns his vitriol in spades, eyes narrowed into slits. “God, you’re an asshole, you know that?” She shakes her head in pity. “I don’t know what he ever saw in you.”

Her words hit him like a sack of bricks, ripping the wind out of his lungs and stealing the words from his throat. In the deep recesses of his mind where shadows linger and cobwebs collect, Viktor can freely admit that he doesn’t know what Yuuri ever saw in him, either, but he’ll be damned if he divulges that information to someone like Harper.

Blistering shame slices through his veins, stiffening his shoulders and locking his jaw stubbornly against further humiliation. He doesn’t give any dramatic parting words, doesn’t stop to care about the fact that Harper got the last word in, that she hammered the final nail in the coffin and sent him reeling with one measly sentence. He simply turns on his heel and walks away, leaving her in the doorway of Yuuri’s room without another word.

He tells himself he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he just made a fool of himself in the middle of an empty hallway in front of Yuuri’s girlfriend. He doesn’t care that his heart is rattling around in his chest like a glass marble in an empty wooden box. He doesn’t _care._

(Except that he does, and it hurts. It hurts quite a bit, actually.)

 

* * *

 

_(Yuri Plisetsky is sixteen years old and does not believe in fairytales.)_

No, wait—he’s twenty, not sixteen. PyeongChang was four years ago and he is _twenty,_ dammit.

_(Yuri Plisetsky is sixteen years old and alone. Very, very alone.)_

He’s twenty.

He’s _twenty._

 

* * *

 

Yuri tells himself he’s most definitely not going to the rink to meet up with Katsudon later tonight. Nope. No fucking way. You really think he’s that _stupid?_

He tells himself this over and over again as he stews over dinner, sandwiched between Mila and Otabek at Team Russia’s table. Beka keeps sending worried glances his way because he’s Beka and he always seems to know everything, which is pretty inconvenient on a day like this, all things considered. Mila tries to get Yuri to join in on the conversation every once in a while, but there’s too much shit going through his head for him to function much past lifting a fork to his mouth and back down again. He’s just… there. Existing.

It’s a weird feeling and he hates it. He hates it a lot.

He just can’t get Katsudon’s face out of his mind. The image of his soft, sad smile and even softer eyes—like he actually _cared_ about Yuri for more than five goddamn seconds—is burned into the inside of his eyelids and he can’t un-see it no matter what he does. He blasts music while the Normatec sleeves around his legs do their job, he stretches twice as long and twice as hard, telling himself he’s just doing it to prepare for the team skate tomorrow. It’s all bullshit and he knows it, but it helps for a little bit.

Even as he sits in the stands for the men’s speed skating event, face tucked into the plush depths of his scarf, he tells himself he isn’t going to go, not even for five minutes. He won’t give Katsudon the satisfaction of seeing him struggle with his step sequences because they’re perfectly fine, dammit, and anyone who says otherwise can fall in a hole and die. The athletic clothes beneath his Team Russia jacket and the skates in his duffel bag are mere coincidences, that’s all. They don’t mean anything.

Even as the speed skating event clears out (New Zealand won gold on a fluke, what the fuck), Yuri tells himself he’s only lingering because he wants to use the off-ice practice room for some late-night warm-ups before bed. He needs to stay limber for the team skate, you know? He recognizes a few people as they funnel out of the arena, and they give him questioning looks when they notice he hasn’t moved from his seat; he sends fiery glares in their direction and it’s enough to keep them from asking questions he doesn’t have the answers to. He’s _not_ staying.

It’s 9:26 PM and Yuri is still not staying. He’s just waiting for Katsudon to flake on him because that’s what he _does_. He wants proof that motherfucker was lying to his face. He yearns for that validation for some sick, self-flagellating reason he can’t be bothered to think about right now. He’s perched up at the top of the arena, tucked into the shadows with his hood set low over his eyes.

He checks the time. It’s 9:30. Katsudon isn’t here.

“I knew it,” he mutters bitterly. Scoffing lowly, he shakes his head. “I _knew_ it.”

And yet it still hurts for some inexplicable reason. Jesus, Yuri wishes he could reach into his own chest and pull out that crumpled, withered feeling just so he could throw it in the garbage and be satisfied for once. He’s not asking for much, really.

He’s just draped the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder when he hears it: footsteps, quiet and fast.

Katsudon comes jogging out of the tunnel on the left end of the ice with his skates tucked under his arm. His glasses are long gone, probably left off for skating purposes, and he’s squinting like an idiot as he scans the brackets and first floor seats. Yuri holds his breath even though he’s well out of Katsudon’s range of vision (because oh my god he is so fucking _blind,_ like how does he even have a driver’s license) and tries his best to blend into the shadows.

Katsudon’s shoulders slump faintly in disappointment when his search comes up empty. Yuri’s heart clenches uncomfortably in his chest.

He holds his breath as he watches Katsudon sit down on the bench to don his skates before getting on the ice himself. He does lazy bracket turns and half-hearted twizzles that are still pretty tight, considering how long he’s been out of the game, and he even does a few flawless triple axels with little to no warm-up—but it’s not like Yuri’s _impressed_ or anything like that. Hell no. He’s just making observations.

He lurks in his hiding spot for ten more minutes, taking note of the way Katsudon’s arms move as he goes through some half-remembered routines from his competition days. Yuri recognizes bits of his _Eros_ routine here and there, and a few signature moves from his Olympic routine that ultimately didn’t win shit. There’s a strange bitterness in his mouth as Katsudon goes into one of his camel spins, leg perfectly parallel with the floor before he gracefully tugs his skate over his head for a steady Biellmann that only looks slightly stiff.

Damn. Katsudon’s been keeping in shape. He makes Viktor look pretty awful in comparison, but that’s not exactly new; Katsudon has always been better than Viktor.

When the clock reads 9:43, Yuri heaves a sigh and descends the lengthy concrete staircase toward the ice. When he reaches the west end of the rink, he drops his duffel loudly enough to catch Katsudon’s attention, tearing him out of an inner spread eagle in a microsecond.

Even from the other side of the rink, Yuri can hear the relieved breath Katsudon lets out upon seeing him. “You came,” he calls, voice echoing around the empty, dim rink. “I was starting to wonder.”

Yuri merely grunts in response and tugs his skates on, tying the laces tight to the point of painful just to punish himself for being weak enough to actually do this. He doesn’t look up even though he hears Katsudon skate over to him with a gentle scrape of metal on ice; he can’t bear to see the smug, satisfied grin on his stupid face.

Once his skates are on, Yuri sheds his jacket and ties his hair up in a messy, probably ridiculous-looking bun that won’t last more than five minutes out on the ice. It’s a small act of rebellion, and he revels in it. Katsudon eyes his hair as Yuri approaches him but wisely says nothing.

“All right, asshole, listen up, ‘cause I’m only gonna say this once,” Yuri snaps. He jabs a finger in Yuuri’s face and levels a steely glare in his direction, relishing the way he flinches imperceptibly. “I’ll do these fucking step sequences for you. I will allow you to give me tips when I am done, but they had better be _damn_ good, else I’m walking out of here and not looking back. Got it?”

There’s a faint smile playing at Katsudon’s lips, but he nods seriously. “Got it.”

“Good.” Yuri cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders. “Now shut the fuck up and don’t take your eyes off me.”

 

* * *

 

_(Yuri Plisetsky is twenty years old and hopeful.)_

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, team skate next chapter. I'm serious this time. We'll get there if it kills me. 
> 
> Been bouncing between this story, Bentonite, and another unpublished story that's a My Hero Academia Todoroki/Midoriya pairing. Why am I like this? We may never know. Inspiration is so wild. 
> 
> Drop a comment and leave kudos! I can't believe this has over 400 kudos. Like, wow. Never thought this would be so successful. Love you all to pieces.


	15. these fragments I have shored against my ruins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No team skate, just more exposition and character development because I'm apparently incapable of sticking to a plan or an outline and my life is going down the toilet but WHATEVER. Team skate next chapter. 
> 
> Side note: Remember that it's been almost FIVE YEARS since the beginning of Yuri on Ice, so Yuuri's changed. He's older, wiser, and used to coaching, so I like to image that he channels part of his Eros confidence when he works. He's still a sweet cinnamon bun, just not on the ice with students. I gave my baby boy some claws.
> 
> Also, beware unreliable narrators. Lots of hidden meanings in this one. Read carefully, or maybe come back and read it twice.

* * *

_Yuuri begins to regret moving in with Viktor on September 16 th at _ _six-thirty in the morning._

 _There is nothing particularly special about September 16 th. He hasn’t fought with Viktor over his inability to roll the toothpaste up from the bottom in a long while, and he hasn’t gotten onto Viktor about leaving his dishes on the table since last Tuesday. By all accounts, the signs point to this being a _good _day for both of them, a brief respite in the downhill slide they’ve been trapped in since the beginning of the skating season. He should be grateful for the reprieve, even if it is entirely temporary._

 _The white walls of the breakfast nook are painted in pastel shades of yellow and pink, and the sunlight streaming through the oversized eastern window warms the tabletop where Yuuri’s elbows currently rest. He stirs exactly two teaspoons of cream into his coffee as he works to fill out a crossword in a language he doesn’t fully understand, a crease trapped between his brows and lips pursed in concentration. His Russian-to-Japanese dictionary is spread open in front of him, as it always is on mornings like these, but a few crumbs from his toast have gotten trapped between the open pages. He tries to dig them out of the binding with his fingernails, but the more he presses, the deeper they situate themselves._ How annoying _, he thinks idly._

 _On the other side of the room, the door to Viktor’s (no,_ their _) bedroom creaks open, squeaking softly on its hinges. Yuuri looks up just as Viktor emerges, rubbing a tired hand over his face. He blinks blearily in the onslaught of sunlight; he still looks half-asleep with his hair a tangled mess and the imprint of bedsheets tattooed across half of his face._

_When his gaze falls on Yuuri, his eyes soften around the edges ever so slightly. “Good morning,” he croaks._

_His voice reminds Yuuri of the saltwater beaches in Majorca—gritty and warm and so very, very soothing. Automatically, Yuuri flips an innocuous page in his dictionary to hide the crumbs between the pages. “Morning.”_

_Viktor’s eyes dart toward the coffee cup at Yuuri’s elbow and the half-completed crossword. “You’re up early,” he says slowly, carefully. “Everything okay?”_

_Yuuri lies, “I’m fine. Couldn’t sleep.”_

_Viktor frowns faintly. “Again?”_

_“It’s not a big deal.”_

_“That’s the third night this week. It’s starting to sound like a big deal.”_

_“I’m fine, Vitya,” he insists quietly, turning back to his crossword. He twirls his pen between his fingers and doodles mindless squiggles in the margins between Cyrillic headlines and cartoons with untranslatable humor. “Do you want me to make you breakfast?”_

_If Viktor hears the lie in his words, he gives no indication. Instead, he shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck, wincing as he works out some residual tension from his muscles. He gestures toward the bathroom. “I can’t stay, actually. Yakov wants me at the rink for some extra practice today, so I was going to grab some breakfast on the way there.”_

_Yuuri’s pen stills in the middle of a smiley face. “Oh. So are we not going to—“_

_His returning wince is all the answer Yuuri needs, and his heart bottoms out somewhere in his stomach. “I’m sorry, Yuuri. I was going to ask.”_

_His fingers have gone numb around the pen. He presses the tip against the newspaper until the ink begins to bleed outward to cover his doodles. “Right. That’s… fine. It’s fine. We can reschedule, I’m sure.” Yuuri tries not to let the disappointment show on his face, so he sinks into his chair and pretends to focus on a word in his dictionary, crumbs totally forgotten. “I’ll just call the restaurant and—“_

_“I called them last night, actually,” Viktor interjects. His smile is hesitant. “It was tricky and I had to pull some strings, but I got us a reservation for Tuesday night instead.”_

_There’s a tearing sensation in Yuuri’s chest before Viktor has even finished his sentence. “I can’t Tuesday.”_

_Viktor blinks, surprised. “What? Why not?”_

_“Yurio wanted me to help him with his step sequences before Rostelecom,” he says quietly. “I promised him I’d help him Tuesday after practice. We talked about this the other day, remember?”_

_He doesn’t; it’s obvious in the set of his brow, the confusion in his eyes. “Can’t you— I mean, can you reschedule with him? We won’t be able to get another reservation for three months, and by then we’ll—“_

_“I’m not going to abandon him, Viktor,” Yuuri says flatly._

_“I wasn’t saying you should. Just move the time up a few hours, maybe.”_

_“That cuts into my practice time with you.”_

_He pauses. “Oh. I— yeah. Right.”_

_Yuuri’s eyes are burning and his chest hurts. He keeps his gaze trained on his forgotten crossword, unable to look up and meet Viktor’s eyes, terrified to show the emotions warring within him. Disappointment, anger, frustration—they blend together to form something unnamable that makes Yuuri feel like the universe is tilted upside down._

_He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to feel this way. Without looking up, he waves Viktor off and tries to force his voice into some semblance of cheer. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll call the restaurant after you leave and see what they can do, all right?”_

_“But—“_

_“You need your practice time, Vitya,” he says softly. “It’s okay, I understand. These things can’t be helped.”_

_Across the room, Viktor says nothing. Yuuri can feel the indecision rolling off of him in waves, feel his inner turmoil just as easily as Yuuri feels the firmness of the tabletop beneath his arms. The sunlight doesn’t seem as bright anymore, and it’s only half as warm._

_In the end, Viktor exhales and rakes a hand through his hair, a frown pinching his features into something unrecognizable. He shoots a quick glance at the clock. “I need to shower and get going. Can we discuss this later? We can figure something out.”_

_Yuuri knows just as well as Viktor that by the time he stumbles back into their flat later tonight, Viktor will be too spent to do anything other than fall into bed, but Yuuri nods anyway. “Of course.”_

_Viktor nods, looking fractionally relieved, but there’s still undeniable tension in his shoulders. He tries for a smile; it’s rather forced at the edges, Yuuri notes. “All right. I’ll make it up to you, Yuuri. I promise.”_

_(Viktor’s never been good at keeping his promises.)_

_So Yuuri works to finish his crossword, steadfastly ignoring the sound of the shower and Viktor’s tuneless humming as he gets ready for the day. When he finally leaves, he drops a quick kiss on Yuuri’s cheek and he murmurs a soft_ I love you _that sounds like little more than white noise before he bustles out the door. Then it’s just Yuuri, his quiet morning in the breakfast nook, and the sweet silence of uninterrupted solitude._

 _The thought crosses his mind before he can stop it:_ I wish we’d never moved in together.

_He dismisses it just as quickly, and the crossword goes unfinished._

 

* * *

 

In the Before, Yuuri’s life was full of bright, shiny things. The fluttery feeling of hope and the toe-curling warmth of unconditional love saturated every aspect of his existence, and everything was good. So, so _good_ —until it wasn’t.

Yuuri doesn’t think about the Before very often. Hardly ever, really. He’s an expert at compartmentalizing, shoving his feelings and memories into a locked box where he can’t find them again. Keeping the box locked doesn’t make it invisible, of course—it’s still there, lurking and taking up too much space in the attic of Yuuri’s memories—but at least he can’t see what’s inside of it, and that’s good enough for him. In the After, Yuuri has focused on piling boxes of other memories on top of the one labeled _BEFORE_ in chicken-scratch Sharpie marker, trying his best to hide it, drown it, _ruin_ it. And, on the whole, he’s been largely successful in his efforts.

The After doesn’t glow quite as brightly as the Before, but the past four years have been full of good memories, too: moving back to Hasetsu, taking on Sutemi as a student, spending time with his family at the onsen, befriending Harper, getting Minako’s studio back up and running again. Countless recollections paint the walls of the After in bright colors, Yuuri knows. He should be grateful.

He knew it was only a matter of time before his luck ran out. The Olympics have all but taken the lock on that box and smashed it to pieces, dumping those memories out at Yuuri’s feet like stale, ice-cold water.

Seeing Viktor at past competitions has always made things harder, but seeing him here is pure torture. Actually _talking_ to Viktor is even worse. The onslaught of memories and ghostly echoes is impossible to ignore in a place like this, where every flat surface is dripping with familiarity to some degree.

Watching Yurio skate, though—

Well. It’s just _impossible._

He sifts through the contents of the obliterated box from Before with tentative fingers as he leans against the boards of the Olympic rink. Afterimages of late night practice sessions in St. Petersburg with dim, lustrous lights above them and unhealthy amounts of cursing paint the backs of his eyelids. He remembers his fingers getting tangled in the snarls of Yurio’s hair as he braided it, pins held between his lips and a furrow in his brow. He remembers playing and laughing and being _friends_ with little Yurio once upon a time, though it feels more like a half-remembered dream at this point.

Yuuri spends the first twenty minutes observing Yurio’s step sequences from a distance, fingers pressed against his mouth and eyebrows furrowed as he scrutinizes every aspect of the choreography. At its core, the program is a good one—he can see Lilia’s influence in Yurio’s counter turns and the way he lifts his arms, fingers curled delicately in the air, and he sees shards of Viktor in his forced expressions of peacefulness and fluid grace—but the program is also choppy and uncomfortably arranged. Watching Yurio skate the sequence is like watching someone try to mix oil with water, and Yuuri hates every second of it.

It could be worse, he supposes—not _much_ worse, but worse nonetheless. He strives to be grateful for that, at the very least.

Once he’s got the pattern memorized well enough, Yuuri pushes off the boards and skates out to the center of the rink to stand in front of Yurio, who is hurriedly stuffing strands of his hair back up into his elastic. He doesn’t flinch at the glare he receives upon his approach—Katsuki Yuuri is now _Coach_ Katsuki, and Coach Katsuki is made of sturdier stuff than he was in St. Petersburg all those years ago.

“Well?” Yurio demands suddenly. “It’s shitty, isn’t it? The whole thing.”

Yuuri nods. “Yes, it’s terrible. That second sequence was one of the worst I’ve ever seen from you.”

For a moment, Yurio looks faintly stunned; his eyes widen imperceptibly and his mouth drops open, almost like he hadn’t expected Yuuri to actually agree with that sentiment, but he’s quick to compose himself when he realizes that Yuuri’s watching his reaction. He settles on a narrow-eyed stare instead. “Whatever. You can fix it, right?”

Yuuri purses his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. “I can try.”

“I didn’t come here for you to try _,_ asshole, I came here for you to _do_.” Yurio waves his hand dismissively. “Now get the fuck on with it already. I’m bored.”

Yuuri feels his gaze sharpen as irritation claws through his veins, and Yurio’s left eye twitches—a miniscule flinch, a tiny crack in an otherwise bulletproof façade. An opening.

Yuuri, feeling emboldened, presses his advantage and skates closer to Yurio—as close as he can get without knocking the kid on his ass in the middle of the rink. He gives Yurio a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Are you always this disrespectful to your coaches, or am I simply a special case?” he asks softly, but his voice is frosty at the edges. “By all means, explain it to me.”

Yurio’s eyes are wider than normal, but he straightens his shoulders and bares his teeth in a half-hearted snarl. “S’not disrespectful if it’s true.”

“Maybe so,” Yuuri hums thoughtfully. “Still. Regardless of whether or not it’s true, I am your coach for tonight and you will address me as such. Viktor may tolerate your childish behavior, but I will not.”

His blinks rapidly, searching for footing on crumbling ground. “You’ve got some nerve—“

“I’ve got quite a bit of nerve, actually,” he interrupts sharply. Cocking his head to one side, he spears Yurio with a stare colder than the ice that has the young man clamping his mouth shut. “And trust me, you haven’t seen the half of it, Yura. I will only say this once: address me with respect, or do not address me at all. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

Yurio grits his teeth as he deliberates. At his sides, his clenched fists tremble with suppressed rage, but his eyes are shadowed with faint traces of desperation—Yurio _knows_ he needs help with the step sequences before tomorrow. Yuuri is banking on the fact that he wants help more than he wants to maintain his pride. The seconds pass slowly.

An audible swallow. Finally, Yurio nods once and drops his glare to the ice. Yuuri hums, content with this answer—for now.

“I’m glad we understand each other. Now, why don’t you take it from the top of that second sequence—oh, and make sure to keep your elbows loose in the second half. I don’t want to see a repeat of that outer spread eagle ever again.” He turns to skate away, but stops at the last second. He glances over his shoulder. “Also, wipe that scowl off your face. It’s ruining the aesthetic of the piece.”

The echoes of Russian curses follow Yuuri as he skates toward the boards at the far end of the rink. He allows himself a small, satisfied smile.

It’s good to be on familiar ground again.

 

* * *

 

Sutemi, for all his popularity on social media, does not get very many phone calls. It’s a personal preference.

Phone calls, in his opinion, are archaic, obnoxious, and difficult to understand if service is poor. They’re also insanely expensive over long distances. Ultimately, it all adds up to one giant mess of impracticality that he’d rather not deal with, thank you very much. Skype or FaceTime is just as easy and twice as effective.

He’s always preferred people to text him if they need him, and he says this to anyone who asks for his contact information. Katsuki-sensei has always been cool about texting him first, even if it’s urgent—like when he sleeps in and misses practice (whoops), or when he has photoshoots or interviews in Tokyo that he’s forgotten about (again, whoops). Dr. Ingram is the same way; she always sends check-up emails and texts to remind him of appointments, but she usually DMs him on Twitter if she really needs him for anything personal. It’s just _easier._

Phone calls in Sutemi’s life are only reserved for three things: Aunt Minako, unknown callers with wrong numbers, and his monthly conversations with his father.

As cool as Aunt Minako is, she’s sort of stuck in 2003 with her aversion to modern technology. It’s one of the only ways she shows her age, and Sutemi learned a long time ago that it’s pointless to try and bring her into the fold that is 2022. Still, her calls are the most enjoyable of the three, even when she’s screeching at him for slacking or punching Russian skaters in the face—which he still feels bad about, even if his popularity has skyrocketed as a result.

Unknown numbers remind Sutemi of his mom’s accident, plain and simple, so he avoids those at all costs. The second his screen flashes with a string of unfamiliar numbers, the icy hands of fear grip his throat, reminding him that he has other family and friends scattered across the globe who might not be as hale and whole as they were an hour ago. He always lets it go to voicemail. If it’s someone he knows, like a sponsor or the ISU, he calls them back. Otherwise, he ignores his phone completely and pretends he’s okay. (He’s gotten rather good at that over the last few years, if he does say so himself.)

Still, Sutemi would rather answer a thousand unknown phone calls than accept a single one from his father. It’s no contest. Not even remotely.

It is 9:37 PM and Sutemi is in his room watching Vine compilations on YouTube when it happens, and he isn’t prepared for it in the slightest. His low chuckle is cut short, killed before it can escalate into a full-blown laugh by the sudden vibration in his hands. The screen changes a split-second later, tearing him from his video to reveal a screen with his least-favorite words in the world plastered across the top.

_Incoming call: DAD_

He blinks at it for a few seconds. Checking his watch, Sutemi determines that this call is exactly eight days early, and dad _never_ calls early. Either someone in his extended family is dead or the stock market crashed. Or maybe Sutemi’s just going to get in his monthly dose of _you-are-a-disappointment_ eight days early so his father can check it off his mental to-do list. For a moment, Sutemi contemplates sending it to voicemail—it’s late, and he could always use the excuse that he was sleeping—but he decides it’s not worth it to have to call the old man back in the morning. Better to get it over with now.

He slides his finger across the screen and raises the cell phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Sutemi,” a smooth voice says, and Sutemi tries not to make a face. “It’s your father.”

He just barely refrains from replying with a sarcastic, “ _Yeah, I’m pretty fuckin’ aware of that,”_ since it’s probably not the best way to start off this less-than-wonderful conversation. Instead, he supplies a neutral, “Uh. Hi, dad. What do you need?”

A heavy sigh, and Sutemi can practically picture his dad leaning back in his expensive leather office chair with a tumbler of scotch at his elbow. He’s probably scowling at the New York City skyline through his office window. “Just checking in. How is your training going?”

 _Just checking in,_ like Sutemi’s a risky investment he’s sunk too much money into and now he has to keep tabs on. He grits his teeth and flops back onto his bed, eyes clamped shut. “It’s fine. Things are good.”

“Good,” he repeats slowly, and Sutemi can hear the frown in his voice. “Is that all you have to say about it?”

Sutemi’s in the middle of a minefield right now, and the bombs are frighteningly obvious everywhere he looks. The problem? He doesn’t give a shit.

So, instead of taking his time, he forges ahead with a clipped, “Yep.” He pops the final consonant obnoxiously just to rub some salt in the wound.

The softly-crackling speaker provides an ominous backdrop for the wrong step Sutemi undoubtedly just made. Another sigh—it’s his father’s go-to form of punctuation. “You know I don’t like it when you’re not specific.”

His response is automatic. “Well, you don’t really like it when I do anything, so.”

Silence on the other end of the line. Sutemi winces, instantly regretting the words once they’re past his lips, but he can’t take them back. If he’s going to be a disappointment, might as well go down swinging. Scorched earth, that’s his style.

His father sniffs in disapproval. “I don’t care for your tone.”

Sutemi bites his lower lip and glares at the ceiling of his room. It’s a really bland shade of white. Like, not even eggshell—just white _._ “Look, training sucks, but I’ve got all my jumps down for tomorrow so it’s whatever. I think I’ve got a good shot at the podium.”

He hums in disapproval, but doesn’t chastise his son. “I see. And how is Katsuki?”

Sutemi frowns. “He’s… fine. He’s hard on me, but he only does it to make me better, so I don’t mind.”

“Would you say he’s doing his job well, then?”

And there’s… _something_ in his voice. Something hidden behind layers of bland curiosity that sends up a little red flag in the back of Sutemi’s mind. “Yuuri’s a great coach, dad,” Sutemi says slowly, carefully. “I’ve told you that. He’s worth every penny you give him.”

“Forgive an old man for being curious,” he says, but there’s a dulled edge to his words that screams _I’m hiding something from you._  Sutemi waits for the penny to drop, for the other explanation to come pouring out of his mouth. He knows his dad well enough to know that there’s an ulterior motive somewhere in this conversation—a thread of something sinister and unpleasant that usually spells trouble. _Big_ trouble.

He doesn’t have to wait very long. Sutemi’s father huffs irritably at his silence. “I’m just concerned because he lost in the last winter Olympics. I don’t want you to repeat his pattern.”

“Dad,” he says flatly, all humor sapped from his body. His voice is low and dangerous. “ _Don’t_. Just… don’t.”

“Hear me out for a second. I ran into your old coach at a gala at the Met the other night, and she said she’d be willing to—“

He rubs a hand over his face and curses into his palm. “Oh my god. You are _unbelievable_.”

“I’m concerned, Sutemi. That’s all,” he explains, almost like it excuses what he just proposed. Sutemi has to tamp down his anger; it doesn’t work half as well as he’d like, and it’s not entirely surprising. “I’m allowed to be worried for your future, you know. I’m trying to take care of you.”

“Yeah, and you’ve been doing a real bang-up job of it these past few years, haven’t you?” Sutemi laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “Father of the year material right here. Maybe I’ll ship you one of those stupid mugs for Father’s Day.”

“I sent you to Japan because you _needed_ it.”

“No, you sent me because you didn’t know what to do with me after mom died!”

He can hear his father’s teeth gritting. “That isn’t true and you know it. I only wanted to—“

But Sutemi laughs again, this time a little louder. He clenches his fists in the blankets to keep his fingers from shaking. “God, you have some balls, you know that? Calling me, checking in to make sure I’m not disappointing you any more than usual. It’s great. So _fucking_ great. I can’t even begin to explain to you just how great it is.”

“Watch your tone, young man,” his father warns sharply, but Sutemi isn’t listening anymore. All he can hear is the rush of blood in his head and the splitting pain in his chest that always creeps up when his father calls him.

He swallows the pain and trudges deeper into the heart of the minefield. “You know what, I think my tone is rather fucking appropriate right now, so pardon me while I keep it up. You don’t mind, do you? Of course you don’t.”

“Now, listen here. I am your _father_ —“

“No, _you_ listen!” he interjects sharply, shaking his head. His gaze is watery and his face is hot, but he’s past the point of no return and words are spilling out of his mouth faster than he can process them. _Scorched earth, scorched earth._ “I’m not going back to my old coach, and I’m sure as hell not moving back to New York. Oh, and you know what? I don’t think I’m coming home for the off season this year, either,” he announces. His voice is dripping with venom. “I’m staying with Aunt Minako and Yuuri. In Japan, where I belong _._ Where I’m _wanted_.”

There’s a weighted silence as Sutemi tries to control his rapid-fire pulse and ragged breathing. His fingers are curled into tight fists and he’s seeing red everywhere he looks, but he doesn’t care, can’t care, can’t _breathe._ He is _livid._ This is the third time his father’s tried to convince Sutemi to come back to the States and train under his shitty old coach. Sutemi has said no every time, but the man is relentless when he wants something—it’s why the fucker does so well on Wall Street.

There is another long-suffering sigh. It’s drawn-out and thin with stretched patience.

“I’m… very disappointed in you, Sutemi,” he finally says, his voice quiet. He can practically hear his father pinching the bridge of his nose to fend off another headache. “If your mother were still here, I know she’d be disappointed, too.”

_Oh._

It’s underhanded. It’s cruel. It’s also not entirely unexpected. Still, the words find their mark and cut deep, carving jagged fissures in vulnerable places Sutemi can’t see. The blow saps him of his energy in one fell swoop and leaves him as lifeless as a ragdoll. All of the bleeding is internal and completely invisible, as it always is, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Sutemi blinks, and his vision goes blurry as he stares at the painted Olympic rings on the wall of his room. “Don’t you dare talk about her,” he intones. “You don’t _deserve_ to talk about her, you— you _asshole_.”

His father begins to say something else, but Sutemi hangs up before he can get the words out, too angry to hear another word out of that man’s mouth. He tosses his phone onto his nightstand and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, allowing a shuddering sob to wrack his body. He doesn’t let the tears spill over—he hasn’t done that for a long time, and he sure as hell isn’t going to let his father be the one to break his streak, not while Sutemi’s still _breathing_. He won’t give his father the satisfaction.

Sutemi doesn’t allow himself to think about it any longer than absolutely necessary. When the unshed tears have dried and his face is no longer red and blotchy, he grabs his skates, slips into a pair of track pants, and heads out the door because what else is there for him to do besides skate his feelings away? He’s never been good at wallowing, and staying in his room all night will only make him that much worse. Better to get some practice out of the way and be productive while he still can.

The receptionist of their building smiles and greets him when the elevator slides open, but he doesn’t hear her, hardly even sees her. He plows through the doors and out into the cold February air, keeping his head down as he makes his way across the village grounds toward the rink. He doesn’t even know if it will be open to skaters at this hour, but he can only hope. He needs a distraction. A big one. Like, something _monumental_.

When he arrives, Sutemi is relieved to find that his ID badge grants him access to the rink without hesitation. A bored-looking security guard pats him down before nodding and gesturing vaguely toward the spectator entrance.

“Two guys are already in there, but they probably won’t mind sharing the ice,” he says. “Rink closes at midnight.”

Sutemi tries to hide his disappointment. “Ah. Okay. Um, thanks.”

He hitches his skates higher on his hip, pressing them tightly beneath his arm as he approaches the arena doors. He takes a staircase marked “ _for skaters and Olympic personnel only”,_ cutting through the empty locker rooms toward the ground-level door that leads to the ice.

When the chilled air of the rink hits him, Sutemi closes his eyes and allows himself to breathe it in. The sharp, cold scent of the ice is an old friend, and a soothing one at that. Here, he doesn’t have to think about his dad or his old coach. Here, he doesn’t have to think about his mom and how his dad’s probably right; she _would_ be disappointed. Here, he feels more at peace—

Right up until he sees Katsuki-sensei and Yuri Plisetsky out on the ice together, that is. Then things become decidedly _un_ -peaceful.

It doesn’t really process at first, weirdly enough. Objectively, Sutemi knows what he’s seeing—Yuuri, arms crossed and hips cocked in his signature coaching stance and Plisetsky, skating stiffly with a scowl on his fucked-up face—but none of it settles into a facsimile of chilling understanding until Sutemi hears his coach’s strict, no-nonsense voice. It jars him out of his reveries.

“Sloppy,” Yuuri calls out sharply, watching as Yurio gesticulates his way through a modified Ina Bauer. He shakes his head in disapproval and spins in place as Yurio cuts around to his left. “Rein in your anger, Yurio. It’s seeping into your movements.”

“I’m trying!” Plisetsky snaps, dropping into a low lunge before twirling back around. His teeth are bared and every joint in his body is stiff with suppressed rage. “I’m doing everything exactly like you said.”

“Obviously not, or else I wouldn’t have any criticism to give. Now start over.”

Yuri drops his arms and groans, slipping out of his step sequence with nonexistent grace. He takes his starting position where he stands and begins the step sequence again. Neither skater notices Sutemi where he stands at the edge of the rink with wide eyes, hands trembling ever so slightly.

Yuuri reaches out at one point and lifts Plisetsky’s chin in the middle of a move, and suddenly, something clenches in Sutemi’s chest, wringing the air from his lungs like a sponge. Is this what betrayal feels like? Or is this something worse?

“Feel the notes in your bones, Yura.” Yuuri’s voice travels across the ice, syllables echoing and rolling into one noise. “Your body is the instrument; don’t just listen to the music and follow along. Make the melody with your movements.”

“There _is_ no music, you hack.”

“I know you can hear it in your head. Focus and listen.”

“I am totally fucking focused right now!”

They argue more, but the barbs are minimal and Yuuri’s words are almost fond at the edges, hinting at something greater that Sutemi doesn’t understand. In the end, he doesn’t feel himself lacing up his skates or dropping his plastic guards on the padded bracket. He only feels a rush in his veins and a sick twist in his stomach that reminds him of that one time he got food poisoning from that ramen place in Kyushu. He skates out toward them before he can stop himself.

Plisetsky is the one who notices him first, and Sutemi feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the faint thread of fear that flickers across his face, mouth dropping open and eyes widening imperceptibly. The fear disappears a moment later, however, and he comes to a dead stop behind Yuuri, one toe pick planted stiffly.

“The hell are you doing here?” Plisetsky asks sourly.

“I think I have more of a right to ask that question than you do,” Sutemi bites out. He stops a few feet away from them both, clenching his teeth as he watches Yuuri’s shoulder stiffen. He whirls around in an instant, and his eyes go wide.

“Sutemi,” he breathes. “What are you doing up this late?”

“Me? What about _you_?” he shoots back. He casts an accusatory glance at Plisetsky, who is glaring with as much vitriol as he can muster. “You’re training this asshole? Seriously, sensei?”

For a moment, no one says anything at all. Yuuri bites his lower lip, looking conflicted about something, and he glances sidelong at Plisetsky. He nods toward the far end of the rink. “Go practice that second sequence, Yurio. I’ll be over in just a minute.”

Yuri looks like he wants to argue, but a stern look from sensei has him cowering—reluctantly, of course. “Fine,” he mutters. “Don’t take too long, jerks.”

Sutemi watches incredulously as Plisetsky skates away. Sutemi’s fists are clenched at his side as he tries to control the anger that’s brimming in his chest, and he turns back to Yuuri—his arms are crossed and his expression is serious, reminding Sutemi that this particular version of Yuuri is not his friend, but his tough-as-nails mentor. In the back of his mind, he knows that confronting Katsuki-sensei like this isn’t a wise course of action, but fuck it. He’s pissed, and he has a good reason for it.

He gestures sharply in Plisetsky’s direction and bites out, “What the _fuck,_ sensei.”

“Let me explain first,” he says calmly, but Sutemi isn’t having any of it.

He sneers. “Yeah, you’d better explain, because what it looks like is pretty damn incriminating. You’re coaching my _competition._ Have you lost your mind?”

Yuuri purses his lips, clearly displeased. “You’re angry, and I get that, but please try to understand before you start jumping to conclusions.” A pause. “And watch your language. I don’t appreciate it.”

The more logical side of his brain hears the warning undertone in Yuuri’s voice, and he bites back another curse at the last second. Instead, he sputters, “There’s not a whole lot to understand. You’re training him for tomorrow, and you didn’t tell me about it. What if I lose because of this?”

Yuuri gives him a disbelieving look. “Do you really think I would coach him if I was worried about him beating you tomorrow? Give me a little credit, ‘Temi. One little training session isn’t going to make that much of a difference in his performance.”

“It’s the principle of the thing!” he sputters. “I mean, why are you even doing it? He hates you.”

“Yurio isn’t my biggest fan, yes, but he still respects me.” Yuuri’s mouth turns down at the corners in a slight frown. “At least, I think he does. I don’t know. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

“Then _why_ —“

“I’m just smoothing out a few rough edges as a favor to Viktor,” he interjects calmly. “It’s nothing worth getting upset over.”

Sutemi recoils in horror, staring at his coach with wide eyes. He struggles to find words. “ _Viktor_?” he repeats incredulously. “But you’ve… You’ve never— I mean, it’s been, like, four years. Since when do you give a shit about him?”

“Since always.”

There are a few painful seconds in which Yuuri blinks rapidly, like he is surprised those words came out of his mouth. He drops his eyes to the ice, taps his toe pick behind him three times, and bites the inside of his cheek. Then Sutemi notices the faint smile curving his lips, and he nearly falls over.

Katsuki-sensei does a lot of things when Viktor Nikiforov is mentioned. Sometimes he’ll trip on obstacles that aren’t there, or his elbows will bump into things they shouldn’t. Sometimes he flubs jumps during practice. Other times, he simply stiffens and shuts down, blocking out the rest of the world so it can’t hurt him like Viktor did once upon a time.

Katsuki-sensei does not _smile_ when Viktor Nikiforov is mentioned. The sky isn’t purple and ice isn’t hot and _Yuuri does not smile over Viktor Nikiforov._ It’s practically one of the laws of nature.

Sutemi stands frozen, completely stunned. He shakes his head slowly from side to side as he tries to find words. “You haven’t even talked to him, though. And that day in the _elevator_ , I mean… How can you—? _”_

“I don’t expect you to understand, Sutemi,” Yuuri says sadly. His eyes are full of so much pain that Sutemi falters for half a second in his argument, and Yuuri uses that opportunity to skate closer and place his hands on his shoulders.

“Listen to me. Yuri Plisetsky was a very good friend back when I was still competing on the circuit, and that means something to me even if it doesn’t mean as much to him,” Yuuri explains patiently. His voice is thick with nostalgia. “He’s your competition, of course—I could never forget something like that—but you’re forgetting that these games aren’t just about competition and winning those medals. They’re about collaboration, cooperation, _teamwork_. Working together for something greater than yourself. That’s why all these countries come together like this.”

“But Viktor—“

“Has _always_ been very important to me, just like Yurio,” he interrupts. His smile is soft and sad, and Sutemi feels his resolve withering with each passing second. “Viktor and I had our fair share of problems, but… I still respect him. As a skater and as a coach. As a person, even.” He sighs softly, carding his fingers through his hair. He suddenly looks entirely exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in years. “Last night when we were out at dinner with everyone, he happened to mention that Yurio’s been having trouble with his step sequences. I just… I _knew_ I couldn’t stand by, not when I could do something about it. So I offered to help.”

Sutemi frowns. “But you still didn’t tell me about it.”

“I didn’t think it was important,” he admits, shrugging. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t tell Viktor either. Neither of you really needed to know about it. You’re going to _destroy_ Team Russia tomorrow in the short, regardless of whatever I manage to do here tonight with Yurio, believe me.”

Sutemi regards him through narrowed eyes, lips parted in surprise as he tries to process all of this information. While Katsuki-sensei’s never told him what exactly happened in PyeongChang, he knows it wasn’t pretty. The tabloids speculated about infidelity, lying, betrayal—everything under the sun, really—but Sutemi knows none of that garbage is true, even if Nikiforov really is an asshole. Anyone who watched Viktor’s free skate in PyeongChang will tell you the same thing; he had been _wrecked_ that night, just as much as Yuuri.

Yuuri is looking at him with open, pleading eyes. His cheeks are still pink and his grip is firm on Sutemi’s shoulders, and he just looks so goddamn _anxious_ that Sutemi can’t help but deflate and nod begrudgingly. He’s already fought with his father tonight, and he’d rather not fight with his coach as well. It’s just not worth it.

Besides, Yuuri nothing if not genuine. He wouldn’t lie, not about something like this.

“Fine,” he mutters, shrugging Yuuri’s hands off his shoulders gently. He crosses his arms. “I _guess_ that makes sense. Doesn’t mean I like it, though.”

“That’s fair,” Yuuri says, looking relieved. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I realize now I should’ve told you.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” He pauses, scowling down at his mentor for a moment. “You’re absolutely sure I’m going to win tomorrow?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.

Yuuri tries to bite back a smile. He glances at Yurio over Sutemi’s shoulder, and Sutemi turns to see what he’s looking at—the kid’s running through his step sequence like his theme has suddenly been changed to _voluntary manslaughter_ or perhaps _unadulterated rage._ It’s not ungraceful per se, but it’s still not pretty to watch.

“You’re going to obliterate him, ‘Temi,” Yuuri tell him firmly.

And even though it’s been a shitty evening with phone calls and surprises and Yuri Plisetsky, Sutemi finds it in himself to smirk.

“Good,” he says. “‘Bout fucking time.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you all catch the unreliable narrator sections? I hope you did. A lot of thought went into double meanings, symbolism, and body language in this particular chapter. Also, how'd you like Sutemi? We haven't heard from him in a while, and while this is a romance, they're all in Beijing for that stupid gold medal. Can't forget that little tidbit as we go along.
> 
> Next up: the frigging teAM SKATE OH MY GOD
> 
> Final side note: Updates may become a bit sporadic as we go into May. Finals are coming up for my students and the end of the year is always hectic. My job and my students come before this story, as much as it pains me to say it, but never fear, for I will never abandon this story. Updates will come even faster during the summer to make up for it. 
> 
> Love you all! 
> 
> XOXO comment kudos subscribe bookmark XOXO


	16. at the still point of the turning world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of the Team Skate. FINALLY. I tried to get it all in one chapter, but I would've been pushing 10k words and I don't like my chapters to be too horrifically long, so you get this instead. Also, sorry for the typos in the last chapter--I always end up finding at least three per chapter once the damn thing is uploaded to AO3, and I correct them as fast as I can. After looking at my words for so long, I go a little blind, I guess. Whoops. 
> 
> Shout-out to flowersfromophelia, who downloaded my story and annotated it with personal comments and color-coded highlighting. It was super interesting to read and I loved every bit of it. Probably the greatest compliment I've ever received as a writer, if I'm being honest.

_Yuuri settles back into his old life in Hasetsu with the ease of a square peg trying to fit seamlessly into a round hole. That is to say—it doesn’t go very well at all._

_Hasetsu is quiet upon his return, almost like the townspeople are holding their breath for his sake, and the silence makes his teeth feel brittle inside his mouth. Excuses go unused on the tip of his tongue when people offer empty platitudes; it is far easier to drop his gaze to the familiar worn tatami mats beneath his bare feet, to focus in on the way his yukata scratches against his skin, chafing, reminding him of times when the things in his life were softer. When things were_ better _._

_His father doesn’t know how to comfort him with words, choosing instead to settle a hand on his shoulder every morning and squeeze like the gentle pressure can ease the tumultuous jumble of thoughts in his head. Yuuri’s mother shoves bowl after bowl of katsudon in his direction, but he doesn’t have the heart nor the energy to tell her that he hasn’t won anything and doesn’t deserve it; instead, he contents himself with warm seaweed miso, sucking down the slimy leaves as if they actually taste like something other than ash. Minako gives him a key to her new studio that goes unused. Yuuri can’t even bring himself to thank her for it._

_Mari is the only one who doesn’t push. She doesn’t ask if he’s okay because she knows he isn’t, and she doesn’t ask what happened because Yuuri can’t put it into words yet—maybe he never will. She’s a steadying presence with her stoic face and ever-present cigarette, and Yuuri wishes he could tell her how much it means to him. Sometimes she’ll find him on the back terrace, legs slung over the stone railing and face buried in his hands while the cherry blossoms undulate overhead. Sometimes she’ll be the one to coax him out of bed in the morning with a basket of unfolded towels and strict instructions on what to do with them, even though they both know he hasn’t forgotten how to fold them properly because he’s been doing it since he was six. Sometimes she doesn’t do anything at all—just lets him be, makes sure nobody finds him when he’s crying in the broom closet with soundless sobs and salty tears._

_Maybe that’s why he spills part of the story to her weeks later, when Yuuri’s staring numbly at the washing machine as it goes through the rinse cycle the seventh time that morning in an attempt to clear Viktor’s scent from the clothes he hadn’t bothered to unpack since his return. He knows Viktor’s warm scent slipped down the drain after the first cycle, but he can’t help but run it again_ just in case.

_That’s how she finds him—standing in front of the washer with silent tears on his cheeks, knees trembling beneath the crushing weight of memory._

_She hesitates. Asks if he’s all right. Her voice is soft and open._

_He ends up crumpling to his knees and spilling the entire story to her in the middle of the laundry room, voice choked with strangled exhalations and garbled Japanese that no one besides his big sister would ever be able to understand. He leaves out the details and focuses instead on that too-large suite they’d shared and the ring that’s no longer on his finger and the pain,_ oh god, it hurts so much, nee-chan.

 

I ruined him _, he tells her finally, once his tears have run dry._ I ruined everything _._

* * *

 

The morning of the team skate event dawns timidly, with very little fanfare. The sunrise cuts through the hazy city smog like a hot knife through butter, painting the skyscrapers in shades of orange, lavender, and gold; steel and glass glitters brightly above the heads of the citizens of Beijing like the finest jewels. Countless cars start to fill the freeway, and the buzz of city life floods the ears of all who listen.

And as the city takes its first breath of morning, five people in the Olympic village begin to stir in their beds.

The first jackknifes into a sitting position amongst his sheets as soon as the molten gold of morning touches his face. His fingers are tense and twitching, the tendons taut beneath his skin like stretched piano wire. The young man allows himself a moment to be impressed that he woke up on time for once—his coach will likely be pleased he didn’t sleep in on the day of his first Olympic event—before he slips out of bed and begins to stretch in preparation for what the day will bring. With every bend and pull, he silently chants the words he’s been thinking for the last four years of his life: _I can do this, I am built to do this, I will make mom proud._ And while he showers and dons his tracksuit, he thinks that it is enough.

The second awakens with a grumble, his yellow hair tangled up just as much as his limbs are with the pliant olive-skinned man who shares his bed. The young athlete considers hitting the snooze button on his alarm at least once—surely nine more minutes wrapped in the arms of his lover wouldn’t be so horrible—but a murmured encouragement from the man in his bed has him stumbling into the bathroom to scrub away stale sweat and residual fatigue from the previous night’s activities. He glares at himself in the mirror when he’s done. He’s stiff and sore and pissed at the world for no reason, but he _has_ to be because if he isn’t pissed, he’s no one, and if he’s no one, then he won’t win the gold. So he allows anger to settle on his shoulders like a stuffy sweater and soldiers on—because dammit, that’s what he’s _good_ at.

The third’s eyes flutter open with a sweep of long lashes and a sigh between soft lips, instant awareness overcoming her senses without the help of an alarm clock. She allows herself to stare up at the ceiling of her room for several heartbeats before readying herself for the day, her elegant face kept carefully blank as her mind races with _what ifs_ and _do I dares._ Her mind is clear this morning; it is not clouded with anger or hurt or fear like it was yesterday in the face of the man with silver hair. She uses the stillness of early morning to her advantage—it’s what her father always taught her to do during times like these. She sees the paths available to her, takes note of her options and tries to see their outcomes, but her foresight is a far cry from 20/20, so she decides to wait and watch what happens for the time being. Maybe this afternoon she’ll have more data. Maybe then she’ll be able to come to the correct conclusion. _Maybe, maybe, maybe._

The fourth person comes to with a sharp gasp, fingers curling stiffly to grip the scratchy sheets of his bed. Perspiration dots his ever-thinning hairline and his upper lip, and his cheeks are flushed crimson with the blood that hasn’t managed to make its way between his legs while he dreamt of forbidden, painful things. The phantom rasp of fingertips trailing over creamy skin lingers in the back of his mind as he splashes frigid water on his face, squeezing his eyes shut to try and quell the half-forgotten memories of whispered promises and easy smiles. He doesn’t have time for things like this. He _knows_ dinner the other night was a fluke and he _knows_ his heart is waging a losing battle for a cause he no longer believes in, but he’s never been good at following orders before—even his own.

The fifth and final person does not wake up at all, mainly because he never fell asleep in the first place. His fingers do not tremble like he expects them to, nor does his breathing become shallow and erratic as the sun rises over the buildings on the other side of his window. He is not anxious. Rather, he is calm. Immoveable. _Whole._

Because, for the first time in a very long time, he knows what he wants—and he knows exactly how to get it.

  

* * *

 

Viktor has never been a stranger to the overbearing weight of a thousand gazes. After spending the majority of his life beneath the stifling scrutiny of the masses, he’s grown used to such things—he’d had little choice, really. Fortunately, he has since learned how to flourish in the harsh spotlight, how to appear larger than life so that no one could ever be bothered to notice the shadow that lurks behind him.

The Olympics are, predictably, entirely different.

Viktor tries not to hear the whispers of the nearby reporters as he leans against the boards at the far end of the rink, hardly a stone’s throw away from Russia’s partially-full athlete’s box; he tries to tune them out and time his blinking just right so he can’t see the flashing cameras nearly as often as he normally would; he tries to focus on the way Yurio’s skating lazy laps around the rink with a pinched expression and stiff knees; he tries to focus on the way the stadium buzzes with anticipation as the timer on the jumbotron counts down the skaters’ warm-up time.

Viktor tries a lot of things, truth be told—and absolutely none of them work. He wishes he could say he’s surprised.

The grandstands are packed with people from edge to edge as the skaters go through their warm-ups in preparation for the first set of individual skaters. Viktor can hear commentators doing recaps of previous events and short bios on each of the individual skaters—he hears his name once, and Yuuri’s name is mentioned twice in a row at one point, and Viktor can only imagine why—but the general roar of the crowd helps drown out words here and there, allowing him peace in the form of half-syllables and garbled sentences.

But the peace is frighteningly short-lived because the reporters behind him are just the _worst_ and refuse to shut up about _Viktor Nikiforov and his failed free skate at the 2018 PyeongChang Olympics._ They rehash everything in excruciating detail, from the way he turned all his quads to doubles to the way he stumbled off the ice afterwards like a man deep in his cups. They also include little opinions here and there about his surprisingly-successful coaching track record with Yurio, but the Olympics are _obviously_ different so his coaching probably won’t amount to anything under the international and personal pressures that surround the games—all for the sake of fucking _ratings._ Viktor has half a mind to turn around and climb over the guardrail just so he can strangle them all with their press pass lanyards.

(But that would be murder, and there’s no ice skating in prison—so instead he focuses on each individual black and silver sequin sewn into the shoulders of Yurio’s costume like they’re the most important things in the world and tries to keep from screaming.)

Yurio had chosen a more subdued outfit for his short program earlier this season, going with dark trousers and a black velvet top with an asymmetrical neckline and silver embroidery along the hem. Sheer material hangs loosely from his arms to cinch back around his wrists, and strategic cutouts litter his torso where it clings to him like a second skin. Accents of burgundy make appearances every time he lifts his arms above his waist, teasing the eye just enough to leave the spectators wanting more. It’s a beautiful costume—but it’s still not enough to distract Viktor from the goddamn _whispers_.

“Oh, dear,” comes a familiar voice, jarring Viktor from his reveries. “I know that face, _chéri._ Whose murder are you planning this time?”

A warm presence on Viktor’s left, and Chris presses a shoulder against Viktor’s as he braces his elbows against the bracket, eyes glued to the skaters on the ice. Viktor snorts humorlessly. “The press, obviously.”

“What, all of them?” Chris glances over his shoulder at the mob of reporters in the stands behind him, and he lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Sounds messy. I would offer my help, but this is a new suit and blood doesn’t come out of Armani without a fight—you understand, I’m sure.”

“Normally, I would,” he grumbles.

“I’m sensing a _but_ here.”

He rubs a hand over his face and suddenly feels entirely weary. He wheels his hand idly through the air. “It’s just… they won’t stop talking about PyeongChang. I don’t know, it feels so—“

“Annoying?” supplies Chris. “Morbidly depressing?”

“Frustrating,” Viktor says. He exhales slowly and watches as Yurio goes through one of his step sequences—his movements are a little odd this morning, a little loose and unfamiliar—but it’s probably just a sign of nerves. “I figured the world would have forgotten about it all by now.”

Chris clucks his tongue. “The media would never forget something like that, my dear,” he responds sagely. “If it’d happened at the Sochi games, maybe, but PyeongChang? Not a chance. It’s much too fresh.”

“Shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”

“At least they’re not being _too_ obvious about it. I’ve yet to see anyone assault you with a microphone. Silver lining, and all that.”

“I’d hesitate to call it silver.”

“Pewter, then. A nice, dusty shade. Hardly shiny at all.”

Viktor purses his lips, considering. “I suppose can live with pewter.”

Suddenly, across the rink, there’s a bustle of activity near the crowded skater’s entrance beneath the stands. Cameras pop and flash and the low murmur of the crowd becomes an incessant buzz of anticipation, voices layered over top of one another and locking together like the teeth of intricate cogs. Even the reporters behind Viktor surge forward in their anxiousness, straining against the barrier of the grandstands. Chris and Viktor trade a confused glance. Perhaps the Canadians have finally arrived—

The crowd parts.

Viktor’s mouth goes dry as sandpaper as soon as Yuuri comes into view. Sutemi is two steps in front of his coach as they slip through the bustling crowd, ignoring thrown comments and questions about who-knows-what and who-fucking-cares. The boy is wearing his Team Japan jacket zipped up over his costume, guarded skates on his feet to emphasize his already-impressive height. Yuuri, though…

Well. He looks _stunning_. Viktor doesn’t really know how else to put it.

Yuuri’s suit, while simple and understated, is cut to fit his lithe figure like a second skin; it is all sharp angles and narrow lapels, the charcoal threads a sharp contrast to the white button-up that peeks out from behind his sleek black-and-grey tie. His trousers follow the gentle curves of his thighs and stop short at his polished shoes—Viktor feels a slight surge of pride when he recognizes the designer as one that he introduced to Yuuri several years back. Yuuri’s blue glasses add a pop of color to the outfit that sends his heart staggering, complemented by the grey knit scarf that’s draped over the shoulders of his jacket.

With wide eyes, Viktor can only stand by and watch in poorly-suppressed awe as Yuuri reaches up to push his hair out of his face nonchalantly, fingers carding through his soft, raven hair.

 _Jesus_. Viktor is a weak man.

“My, my,” Chris hums, his voice appreciative and strangely smug. Viktor knows he’s being watched by the shrewd eyes of his close friend, but he doesn’t _care._ He feels the pressure of an elbow in his ribs, but he does not tear his gaze away. “Yuuri looks quite nice this evening, wouldn’t you agree, Viktor?”

He would. Oh, god, he _would._ Wholeheartedly, even—if only he could get the right words out in some kind of comprehensible order. As it stands, the only thing he can think about is how easy it would be for him to peel Yuuri out of that magnificent ensemble with nothing more than a few whispered, filthy words and his teeth.

Viktor’s seen Yuuri wear similar suits at past competitions, but he’s obviously stepped up his game since last season. The Japanese coach has _never_ before worn something so chic, so form-fitting and salacious. If Viktor didn’t know better, he’d assume Yuuri had hired a professional stylist for the Olympics. Knowing Yuuri though, Viktor has a strong suspicion that Phichit was likely involved with this outfit choice; he’s always had a remarkable talent for guilt-tripping Yuuri into doing things he wouldn’t ordinarily do.

(Viktor is suddenly very, _very_ thankful for Phichit, even if Viktor’s likely been at the top of the Thai skater’s shit list for the last four years in a row. He’s half-tempted to send him an anonymous bouquet of flowers.)

Viktor struggles to release the sudden tension coiled in his muscles as he watches Yuuri and Sutemi brush past the press without batting an eyelash, their eyes narrowed in determination as they approach the waiting box for Japan. Situated only two boxes down from Russia’s, it’s close enough for Viktor to make out finer details the rest of the arena can’t see, like the way Yuuri’s mouth barely moves as he whispers to Sutemi, or the way Yuuri’s black leather gloves are stretched tight over his knuckles at his sides.

“Darling, please close your mouth. You’re drooling,” says Chris, his voice laced with familiar, earnest teasing—the type that’s been known to break Viktor out of Yuuri-centered emotional ruts like this one, but this time around it’s not really working.

When Viktor says nothing (because what is there to say, really?), Chris frowns and turns toward him, one corner of his mouth curved upward in faint amusement. But when he sees Viktor’s pale face and tense shoulders, his expression fades into one of grave concern; it’s the sort of expression that mixes a half cup of pity with a quarter cup of too-familiar trepidation and a dash of _dear god this is exhausting, why am I doing this for you again?_

Chris slowly reaches out to gently touch Viktor’s elbow. He murmurs, “Viktor, please don’t do this to yourself.”

But it’s too late because Viktor’s already tumbled headfirst into the tumultuous pit of black, conflicting emotion that’s done its damnedest to chip away at the leftover pieces of his heart for the last four years. He is lost. So utterly, irrevocably lost.

“Did you know he took me home the other night?” Viktor blurts abruptly, swallowing the pinpricks of pain in his throat. Every inch of his skin suddenly feels too hot. “After dinner, I mean. I didn’t—I didn’t tell you. Meant to. But I didn’t.”

Chris purses his lips and something like guilt flashes through his eyes. “I know. I heard.”

Viktor lets out a humorless laugh that reverberates in his hollow chest. “Figures. Who told you?”

“Word travels fast in the village, _chéri._ There are no secrets here.”

Viktor isn’t surprised in the least. He shakes his head and takes a step back from the barrier, hands dropping to his sides where he clenches his fists, wishing his nails could bite through the leather of his gloves to prick the skin of his palms. “I was drunk— _really_ drunk.” A sliver of something cold shoots through his chest as he remembers the feathered, rainbow-tinted edges of that night; chromatic aberration in surfeit. “We haven’t talked about it since it happened. He’s probably embarrassed about the whole thing. Not that I blame him.”

Horror dawns in Chris’ eyes. “You didn’t…” he trails off nervously, but relief floods his features when Viktor shakes his head. He places a hand over his heart and exhales sharply. “Oh, thank god. Don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry,” he says, but doesn’t mean a single syllable. Clearing his throat, he rubs the back of his neck. “He tucked me in though. And he—“ Viktor swallows and winces “—he called me Vitya before I fell asleep.”

A pause. Chris’ eyes flash with something indecipherable, and his lips twitch imperceptibly at the corners for half a heartbeat. His voice is low and smooth, tone sly. “Did he, now?”

He sounds doubtful, and Viktor’s defenses materialize instantaneously—a knee-jerk reaction. “I didn’t dream it,” he argues. “I know it really happened. I was drunk, not deaf.”

Chris holds up his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t saying otherwise. I’m just surprised, that’s all.” He frowns faintly, brows creasing. “Do you think—”

“I don’t think anything. I’m not getting my hopes up, Chris.” He exhales softly through his nose. “I _can’t_.”

“Well, it must mean something _._ Yuuri rarely speaks without thinking.”

Viktor swallows thickly, dangerous thoughts slithering through the fissures in his façade. Too many maybes, not enough certainties. _Dangerous._ “Could’ve been a slip of the tongue,” he says quietly. “Old habits, something like that.” But the excuse sounds thin even to his own ears.

Chris opens his mouth to say something but stops at the last second, breath hissing past his teeth. His face is creased with worry and weariness and all sorts of other emotions Viktor doesn’t care to parse through, but Viktor still can’t help but think he’s never looked less like Christophe Giacometti than he does right now.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor murmurs, turning back toward the ice sullenly. The countdown on the jumbotron is closing in on zero, and the skaters on the ice are starting to fidget with their costumes, fingers pinching and pulling at chiffon, satin, and silk like it will somehow quell their nerves. “I just…” he huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose until it hurts. “I feel like I’m losing my mind, Chris. Like—like everything’s two steps away from making sense but I’m too afraid of tripping to stand up and walk.”

Chris slots himself back against Viktor’s side, shoulder pressed against his in an attempt at comfort. They watch as their respective students twirl and jump, hair flying and eyes bright beneath the harsh stadium lights.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re losing your mind,” says Chris, his voice low.

Viktor chuckles bitterly. “Well, that makes one of us.”

The jumbotron blares a bright red zero and sounds a sharp klaxon, ripping Viktor from his bottomless pit of self-flagellation with little preamble. A soft-spoken woman comes on the intercom, her voice echoing across the ice as she instructs the skaters to exit the ice because the warmup period is over and the competition will be starting soon. A lead weight drops into Viktor’s stomach. _It’s time._

Chris trades a grimace with Viktor and claps him on the shoulder in silent farewell before slipping into the crowd, heading toward the Swiss team box on the other side of the rink. Viktor doesn’t wish him luck; he’s scared of what his voice might sound like if he speaks. Emotions churn in his stomach, tipping ever so slightly on this side of nervous.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Viktor looks out toward the ice and watches as Yurio steps off the ice with a glare set into his features. A young attendant hands him his guards with a toothy grin and scurries out of the way as Yurio storms past the other skaters toward Russia’s waiting box. Viktor intercepts him, falling into step alongside him halfway there.

“Nervous?” Viktor asks quietly, ducking out of the way of a low-flying camera drone from NBC. Reporters eye him warily as he passes, whispers rippling in his wake like watery echoes of bitter words and half-truths. If Yurio notices them, he doesn’t let on.

Yurio snorts. “Fuck no. I’m going to own that ice.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re feeling confident.” Viktor glances at him sidelong, noting deep shadows beneath his eyes that hadn’t been there the other day; they’re purple-black, like bruises. “Didn’t sleep well last night?”

Tension coils in his delicate shoulders. “Like a baby,” he mutters, but his tone isn’t convincing.

Viktor swallows. “I, uh, tried to call you about practice yesterday, but you kept sending me to voicemail,” he says abruptly, his voice stuffed to bursting with forced lightness. He fidgets his fingers at his side. “I didn’t mean to forget again, honest. I’m really sorry. It’s okay if you want to be mad.”

There’s a pause that stretches on for several halting steps, the heels of Viktor’s dress shoes sinking fractionally into the soft mats beneath his heels. He knows his lines for this—he’s rehearsed them enough to know them backwards. The only thing that changes from scene to scene is how long Yurio yells at him afterwards. Viktor braces himself for a vicious chewing-out.

Yurio swallows. Takes a breath. “It’s fine,” he finally mumbles, and that simple phrase is enough to make Viktor trip over absolutely nothing.

He catches himself at the last second, righting his equilibrium as gracefully as he can before the cameras can snap too many photos. He stares open-mouthed at Yurio and tries to process what he just said. “’ _It’s fine’_? What do you mean ‘ _It’s fine’_?”

Yurio rolls his eyes and scoffs under his breath. “It means exactly what you think it means, dipshit. Quit being stupid.”

“I abandoned you at practice and you’re not mad,” he says incredulously, as if repeating it will somehow make it more believable.

A shrug, Yurio’s shoulders rustling the soft chiffon of his costume. “I mean, I was obviously pissed at first, but—“ he bites his lip and jams his fists in his pockets with a scowl “—I got all my shit done in the end. Worked on my step sequences a bit. Cleaned a few things up.”

They’re nearing Russia’s box now, but Yurio stops abruptly at the foot of the red plastic bleachers and glares up at Viktor through his fringe, teeth bared. He jabs a finger in Viktor’s face.

He snaps, “Look, I’m really fucking grateful, okay? If you hadn’t— if you’d actually—“ a frustrated groan. “Oh, _whatever._ Just… thanks.” His face sours like he’s been sucking on a lemon and he recoils. “And I’m not gonna say that ever again, so deal with it and get out of my face before I chop those stupid shiny shoes of yours in half with my skates. Got it?”

Viktor is confused. He blinks, frowning down at his student, mouth agape with a million unvoiced questions. _Who are you and what have you done with my student_ is right at the forefront, leading the charge, but Viktor manages to clamp his mouth shut and nod dumbly. Yurio scowls at him and mutters something about morons under his breath before turning back toward the box and climbing up to the top row of seating. Viktor follows close behind.

As they clamber up the steps toward the top of the box, Otabek raises a hand in greeting and Mila snaps a few pictures of them with a deceptively sweet smile. Neither of them are skating today since pairs go tomorrow with the women’s singles and the male free skate, but they’re decked out in Russia’s colors to show their support for the rest of their team; Mila’s bright hair is a shock of rust against a background of shiny stainless steel. Yurio looks slightly less murderous as he drops into the seat next to Otabek. Viktor takes the empty spot next to Mila, situating himself between her and—

Oh. Yakov’s here.

“Vitya,” he grouses in greeting, arms crossed over his chest. His hat is situated low on his brow, shadowing his stony, unyielding expression. To anyone else, Yakov’s glower would be the exact opposite of comforting, but Viktor consciously tries not to melt in relief like a popsicle on a hot summer’s day because then everything would get all sticky and Yakov would be mad—and now that Viktor’s thinking about it, it’s not the best metaphor he’s ever come up with. But he doesn’t care. He’s just so _relieved._

He flings his arms out to either side and wraps Yakov in a crushing hug that makes him squawk something about arthritis. “Yakov! I was worried you wouldn’t make it in time!” he cries into the scratchy wool collar of his overcoat. It smells like cigar smoke and ethically questionable life choices, but Viktor is convinced he’s never smelled anything better in his entire life. “When did your flight get in?”

“Late enough for me to still be jet-lagged.” Yakov disentangles himself from Viktor’s grasp and glares half-heartedly under the brim of his hat.

Viktor hums, nodding. “That’s too bad. Still, I’m glad you’re here. I was worried you’d miss the team skate entirely. How was your marriage counseling?”

He stiffens. “None of your business.”

“That good, huh?”

Yakov’s lips twitch against his will. A fine crack in his cut-glass exterior. “Things between me and Lilia are… amicable. We’re taking steps.”

Viktor’s heart swells and he crashes into Yakov again, hugging him until he’s worried he’ll crack the old man’s ribs. He feels fingers attempting to pry him and Yakov apart—Mila, most likely—but he wouldn’t let go even if Stéphane Lambiel asked him to because _holy shit_ Yakov’s here and everything’s going to be all right now.

“I’m so happy for you!” Viktor gushes, curling his fingers into the stiff fabric of Yakov’s coat. “I’m sure things will start looking up for you and Lil—“

“Vitya, _let go of me,_ ” he snaps, jerking out of his stifling embrace. Yakov scowls and dusts himself off, but there’s a softness in his eyes that betrays his prickly attitude. “You’re making a fool of yourself. Think of the press.”

“Right, right, sorry.” He tries to straighten Yakov’s collar for him, but he bats Viktor’s hands away before they get anywhere near him. Viktor stuffs his hands in his pockets to keep them from wandering. Still, he can’t help the grin that splits his face as he gives his mentor a thorough once-over. “I’m just… so relieved you’re here.”

He grunts noncommittally and aims a narrow-eyed stare out at the ice, where a Czech skater is taking up his position for the first short program of the afternoon. “Have you been working with Mila and Otabek like I asked?”

“A few times,” he says, hedging the truth a bit. He’s been present for a few of their practices over the last week and a half, but he’d be lying if he said he’d really paid attention the whole time. “They’ve been doing well. Haven’t needed a lot of instruction from me.”

He huffs. “And Yura?”

Viktor glances sidelong at Yurio, who is scrolling through his phone and leaning lazily against Otabek’s shoulder. “He’s going to be fine. He’s been working on his step sequences more. Today shouldn’t be a problem for him.”

Yakov nods brusquely. “Good. I was worried you’d be too distracted by Katsuki to focus on your duties.”

Viktor’s chest ignites with something painful and smoldering that hits the back of his throat with the aftertaste of all the things he’s too afraid to say out loud, metallic and wanting. He can’t help but glance over the head of the crowd toward Japan’s box where Yuuri still sits, elbows braced against his knees and fingers laced together as he scrutinizes the Czech skater’s routine. Sutemi is on his left and Kenjirou Minami is on his right, both of them looking as relaxed as ever, almost like the Olympics are little more than a preliminary competition at some no-name rink with a bunch of who-gives-a-shit-what-their-names-are skaters. Minami’s trademark crooked incisor flashes in the light as he says something to both of them—a criticism on the Czech skater’s routine, no doubt. Yuuri smiles widely. Sutemi laughs. Viktor wonders if this is what it feels like to burn from the inside out.

At least Harper isn’t there. She’s probably in the stands somewhere, doing evil Harper-things and plotting Viktor’s demise because she’s horrible like that. Or maybe he’s just being petty and she’s actually out saving the whales or something. Viktor doesn’t know. Competitions always make his thoughts muddy.

He shakes his head and tears his gaze from Yuuri just as the Czech skater strikes his final pose in the center of the ice.

“I’m fine,” he tells Yakov over the applause. “It’s just like every other competition. Yuuri’s just another coach.”

It’s a lie, but Yakov doesn’t need to know that. Not yet, anyway.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon drags on. Skaters from countries Viktor’s never even heard of come out on the ice to perform for the judges, spinning and jumping like their lives depend on the scores that flash across the jumbotron above the rink. A few of them do well. Most are the definition of mediocrity. Some are absolutely disgraceful and shouldn’t be allowed to own skates in the first place. Yurio scoffs at each missed jump, Otabek hums in appreciation every time someone executes a tight sit spin, and Mila cheers regardless of how abysmal the performance happens to be. Yakov says nothing, sitting the entire time with his arms crossed over his chest and a displeased look frozen in place on his features.

Viktor’s the only one who can’t stay focused. For every ten seconds he spends watching the skaters out on the ice, he spends another twenty watching Yuuri. Memorizing his features and the cut of his suit like he’s one of those spot-the-difference puzzles in the Sunday paper with answers you won’t see until tomorrow. He memorizes the way his lips play into a delicate smile every time Minami whispers something in his ear. He memorizes the way Yuuri bites the inside of his cheek every time Sutemi mutters something under his breath about the current skater. He maps out the perfect angle of Yuuri’s eyebrows as they knit together, forming a crease that Viktor longs to smooth out with his thumb.

_Go to sleep, Vitya. You’ll feel better in the morning._

It meant something. Right? Yuuri wouldn’t just say something like that without meaning it. He’s always been the type to analyze his sentences fifty times before saying them out loud, even to himself in the mirror.

Portugal’s skater falls on a triple axel. A hiss of displeasure from the audience.

Viktor wonders if Yuuri feels as lonely as he does. If he feels the crushing solitude that makes him feel like the last man on Earth. Like he’s missing one of his arms, or like the breath has been stolen from his chest and held for ransom. He wonders if Harper is the one who staunched that particular gaping wound, and if Yuuri’s content with the temporary stopgap she’s supplied. In the back of his mind, he wonders if it’s not temporary at all; maybe Yuuri’s actually _happy_ with her and the life they’ve created together out of the ashes of his life with Viktor all those years ago. (But that’s crazy because how could anyone be happy with someone like Harper? She’s the worst.)

Canada’s up next. It’s not JJ this year, so Viktor isn’t the least surprised when the skater touches down on a quad toe loop in the first half. Yurio isn’t subtle with his fist pump.

On the other side of the rink, Yuuri begins fiddling with his cufflinks and scanning the crowds for someone or something, or maybe nothing at all. Viktor has no idea. His lower lip is pulled between his teeth. Maybe his family is in the stands and he’s searching for them, or perhaps Minako has come to watch her nephew—

Viktor tenses right before Yuuri’s gaze falls on him over the heads of reporters and athletes as they bustle around the edges of the rink. Yuuri blinks, eyes widening in surprise for the briefest moment when he realizes Viktor is holding the stare and not looking away like he usually does. Viktor’s breath catches in his throat and he probably looks like a gaping fish, but he doesn’t _care_ because Yuuri’s looking at him and it’s the most fabulous fucking thing Viktor’s ever experienced in his life. He’ll gladly suffer the fate of a fish a little while longer if it means Yuuri keeps looking at him like that _._

Then, like a beam of tentative sunlight poking through the clouds, Yuuri smiles softly. He spares a small wave. A cautious greeting. An olive branch.

In the back of his mind, Viktor wonders if this is what it’s like to float in space without a tether to hold him down; his lungs strain, bereft of air, and he can’t tell up from down or right from left. It’s like the sky is splitting open into something unfathomable that Viktor could never hope to understand. _Endless,_ he thinks. _Infinite._

Swallowing thickly, Viktor chances a smile in return and raises his hand an inch, fingers twitching slightly to wave back. Yuuri’s cheeks flush adorably at the sight and he drops his gaze to his lap shyly. The air seems to vent back into the room once again, and Viktor sucks in a greedy breath.

_It means something._

“— _Vitya!”_

Yakov’s gravelly voice rips him from his little pocket of timelessness and sends him crashing back to reality. He glances over at Yakov with wide eyes. “Hmm?” he tries, going for innocence.

Yakov mutters something under his breath about _air-headed divas_ and jabs a finger down toward the ice where Leo is skating the second half of his routine that Viktor totally forgot to watch. “Yura’s up next. Get down there before the American boy finishes.”

“Right,” he says numbly. He glances sidelong at Yurio, who’s whispering something in Otabek’s ear with furrowed brows. “Yurio? You ready?”

It earns Viktor a half-hearted glare. “Waiting on you, you old fuck.”

Viktor doesn’t hear the insult over the rush of _he smiled at me he smiled at me what does it all mean?_ that’s running through his head at a million miles an hour. He feels himself stand up and descend from Russia’s box of athletes—he thinks he hears some words of encouragement from the ice dancers that are waiting to perform their routines after the men’s short program section, and he gives them half-hearted nods as he goes along. Yurio is following close behind him, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket and a don’t-fuck-with-me glare carved into his expression.

When they reach the far end of the rink, Yurio sheds his jacket and shoves it in Viktor’s waiting arms, jaw set in determination. As he takes his skate guards off and hands them to the young Chinese attendant, the music overhead stops and applause floods the arena in a deafening deluge of rolling sound. Leo bows from the center of the ice, a nearby commentator lists his accomplishments, and bouquets are thrown by the dozens from the stands. Yurio watches all of this with disinterest, rolling up on his toe picks before dropping back down with a jolt over and over again.

“Remember to watch that second step sequence,” Viktor murmurs in Yurio’s ear. “Keep your arms loose—“

“Jesus, you’re annoying,” he snaps, glaring over his shoulder. He opens his mouth to say something else—another insult, no doubt, and Viktor braces himself for it—but at the last second, Yurio clamps his mouth shut and color floods his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he mutters, dropping his gaze to the floor, and Viktor’s heart stops. “I’m just— I’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Viktor stares, certain he’s hallucinating because _what the hell is even happening anymore?_ Is he dreaming? Did Yuuri actually smile at him earlier or did he imagine that, too? He doesn’t chance a single breath, afraid of shattering this delicate and perfect delusion that’s obviously too good to be true.

Then Yurio says, “I’ll make you proud, coach,” like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and even though it’s said through gritted teeth, Viktor knows he’s sincere in his own weird way.

He doesn’t have time to voice the thousand questions that have sprung up in his mind before Leo comes off the ice with flowers in his arms and a grin on his face. Yurio takes the opportunity and makes his escape to do a couple warm-up laps while Leo’s scores are settled. Viktor feels light-headed. He stares as Yurio cuts easy laps into the ice, his face smooth and serene and _comfortable_. Every muscle in his body is relaxed and loose, ready for anything the world throws at him.

Invasion of the body-snatchers. That’s what this is. There’s simply no other explanation.

Then, a shout pierces the rumbling din of the crowd around him. Viktor looks over, startled, and sees Yuuri descending from his own box to approach the barrier about fifty feet down from where Viktor’s standing. His gait is long and languid, movement fluid as he skirts past athletes and coaches, and he waves Yurio down with another shout that’s lost to the shapeless noise in Viktor’s head. Yurio spots Yuuri where he’s waving to catch his attention and the boy’s face hardens, which isn’t entirely unexpected, all things considered.

What is unexpected, however, is the way Yurio angles his blades and glides over to a dead stop in front of Yuuri.

Viktor’s brain short-circuits.

He watches with numb, twitching fingers and a slackened jaw as Yuuri leans over the barrier and places his hands on Yurio’s shoulders, his brows furrowed as his lips move rapidly, his words inaudible from this distance. Viktor expects Yurio to recoil and shrug him off, but Yurio simply nods, jaw set, and murmurs a few things back. When he’s done speaking, Yuuri shakes his head and gestures out toward the ice, spitting out a few more sentences Viktor can’t decipher. Then Yuuri squeezes his shoulders and pushes Yurio out toward the ice with a faint smile on his face.

Somewhere overhead, Leo’s scores are announced. Viktor doesn’t hear them. He doesn’t hear Yurio’s introduction either. All he hears is the rush of blood in his ears and the jumbled confusion that’s bottoming out in his stomach, making him feel faintly nauseated and off-balance. _This isn’t real. This isn’t happening._

Across the ice, Yuuri catches his eye, and Viktor can only stare with questions brimming in his eyes. Yuuri then turns on his heel and returns to his seat, purposely avoiding Viktor’s gaze. Sutemi doesn’t look surprised at his exchange with Yurio in the least, almost like he’d been expecting it; Minami has his eyebrows raised in shock, but he keeps his mouth shut when Yuuri takes his seat, choosing instead to give Yuuri a confused look that he dismisses with a slight shake of his head.

And then Yurio’s program music starts up, drowning out the rest of the crowd with furious string music and forcing Viktor’s attention back to the ice. He shoves his questions in a box for later when he has more time to parse through them and sort them into appropriate piles of what-the-hell and too-good-to-be-true.

Out on the ice, Yurio works through his first step sequence, his arms floating above his head as he dances across the ice. He floats like the prima ballerina Lilia shaped him into, face serene and chin tilted back toward the ceiling in silent supplication to the cosmos. His movements are… fluid. More fluid than they’ve been in the past, at least. Viktor frowns, pressing his fingers against the seam of his mouth as he analyzes every move he makes. Yurio’s first quadruple Lutz is clean enough, and Viktor allows himself a surge of pride at the sight of his raised arms—which will earn a huge grade of execution point boost with the judges, no doubt edging out all the other skaters before him.

The jump flows neatly into his first major step sequence of the piece. Viktor braces himself for the inevitable stiffness that always comes with this particular sequence, fully expecting stiff elbows and tense shoulders to fill the routine like bunched snags in beautiful silk sheets. They’ve worked on this sequence for months, fighting to find the disconnect between Yurio’s emotions and—

And it’s _working._

At this point, Viktor’s half-convinced he’s actually dead and simply living out all the fantasies he’d wished and hoped for when he was alive. He stares in unabashed shock as Yurio’s elbows float through the air, his body pressing pliantly against the strains of music that emanate from the overhead speakers almost like he’s performing an intimate dance with a partner no one else can see. There’s no anger in his movements, no unspeakable rage or frustration. There is only Yurio and the ice, and the audience is _enraptured_.

He floats effortlessly into a quad toe loop-triple toe loop combination with a flourish, both arms raised above his head. He touches down on the landing and the audience murmurs in disappointment, but he met the rotation requirement, so he easily shakes it off. The second step sequence is just as beautiful as the first, flowing like a clear river and meshing with the music as if it was composed specifically for him.

 _I didn’t do this,_ Viktor thinks numbly, watching open-mouthed as Yurio stutters briefly over a change-foot spin that was originally a Mohawk turn, but his fluidity doesn’t cease for a second. _This is not my handiwork._ _I never could have—_

A thought hits him. He sees the pale afterimage of Yuuri griping Yurio’s shoulders and smiling reassuringly.

_Oh, god._

Viktor’s head snaps to the side, honing in on Yuuri’s hunched figure in Japan’s waiting box. He’s watching Yurio with narrowed, calculating eyes and fingers curled around the bottom edge of his bench, teeth tugging on his lower lip nervously. He holds his breath when Yurio makes another jump. He releases it just as quickly when he lands it and goes into his third step sequence. He’s _nervous,_ Viktor realizes with a start.

He’s nervous because he’s the one who choreographed it.

Yurio’s third step sequence is bumpy, but the elements are true to form and flow well together, even if the execution is a little raw and unpracticed. Last night, then. That’s when this must’ve happened. Yurio’s voice echoes in his head, reminding him of pale, half-forgotten words from earlier, words he’d hardly considered at the time.

_I got all my shit done in the end. Worked on my step sequences a bit. Cleaned a few things up._

Viktor covers his mouth to stop everything from spilling out—he doesn’t know what would happen if he didn’t, what kind of sounds would spill forth. Words, maybe. Confused mumbling. Lots of emotions, all tangled up like rope and knotted into something impossible. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, but the undertow is strong enough to drown him where he stands.

Yurio’s program ends with a crescendo of strings and the thunder of a timpani that rattles Viktor to his bones. The applause is thunderous and all-encompassing, and out on the ice Yurio lifts his arms in victory. There is a surprised, brilliant smile on his face like he can’t quite believe what just happened, his eyes crinkling and tearing up. Dozens of young skaters in tutus skate laps around him, collecting all of the stuffed cats and flowers his fans hurl in his direction.

Still stunned, Viktor manages to clap along numbly, his eye dazed and wandering. He spots Yuuri on his feet in the box, a brilliant grin plastered across his face and hands clapping vigorously; he even puts his fingers to his lips and lets out a piercing whistle that he once tried to teach Viktor how to do several years ago. (He could never quite get the hang of it.)

Yurio is smiling and waving as he pushes off the ice, gliding toward the exit on shaky knees. When he reaches the barrier and steps off, he claps his skate guards on his blades and catches a few stuffed cats from the Angels perched above him, doling out his happiness in hefty doses for once.

Viktor slips between the crowd that surges around him and wraps a hand around his elbow, dragging him toward the Kiss and Cry with a little more force than necessary, but he can’t feel his hands anymore so it’s not like he’s doing it on _purpose._

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks through his smile as they sit on the padded benches of the Kiss and Cry. The camera is trained on them, displaying their likenesses up on the jumbotron and they wait for Yurio’s score to come through, so Viktor does his best not to look half as shaken as he feels.

Yurio spares him an annoyed look. “Tell you what?”

Viktor wants to tear his hair out, but refrains. Barely. “Why didn’t you tell me that _Yuuri_ coached you on your step sequences?” he reiterates, patience stretched thinner than wire.

Yuri gives him a weird look. “Um. Because you were the one who sent him, obviously? Quit being stupid.”

“You— I— _what?_ ” he sputters, losing his composure for half a second. He puts his mask back on before the camera sees too much, but it’s slipping fast.

Yurio raises his eyebrows and speaks with exaggerated slowness. “ _You’re the one who sent him.”_

“Don’t do that!” he cries frantically, holding onto the last vestiges of his sanity by the skin of his teeth. He inhales and lets it out slowly, trying to gather his wits into a tight bundle as best he can. “Just… explain. Please, Yura.”

Yurio huffs and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling dramatically, toying with the ears of his cat plushie. “God, you’re weird,” he mutters. He aims a glare up at Viktor. “Look, Yuuri showed up to the practice you skipped and said he wanted to help, all right? He mentioned how you told him I was having trouble with my step sequences, and he offered to help.” His eyes narrow into slits. “Seeing as you’re the one who told him, I figured you fucking _knew about it_.”

Viktor is frozen to the spot. He swallows, fighting the layer of grit that suddenly lines the walls of his throat. “Well… I didn’t. Know about it, that is.”

Yurio blinks. Frowns. “But he told me—“

“I don’t know why he would say that to you. I didn’t ask him to help you. Maybe I said something in passing the other night,” Viktor mutters, almost to himself. He taps his index finger against his chin and frowns down at his shoes as he tries to sort out the blurred shapes of that night, fighting against the pastel haze of alcohol that had clouded his senses so thoroughly. He remembers talking to Yuuri on the way out of the hotel, but the specifics are a little muddy here and there.

Suddenly, it comes to him in a rush. The bitter aftertaste of vodka and Yuuri’s fabric softener cling to the memory, and he shudders as he recalls the warm expanse of Yuuri’s skin that Viktor felt through his clothes where they were pressed together.

 

_“I can’t teach the… um, things. That you taught him. Good things, y’know? Flowy hand stuff and music and whatever.”_

_Yuuri blinks. “Are you talking about his step sequences?” At Viktor’s nod, Yuuri gives him an incredulous look. “Yurio’s step sequences are fine, Viktor. I saw a video of his performance at the GPF.”_

_“Yeah, but they’re not_ good _. That’s the problem.”_

Viktor presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and groans, cameras and nearby reporters be damned. Humiliation courses through his veins, hotter than molten lead and twice as heavy. Maybe if he changes his name and moves to Liberia now, he can escape the circus show that is his life and die happily in the middle of nowhere like he deserves.

Beside him, Yurio shifts in his seat awkwardly. “If you’re thinking about apologizing or some shit, don’t.”

Viktor peers through his fingers. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said _don’t apologize.”_ He swipes a few sweaty strands of hair out of his eyes and scowls lightly. “I don’t want to hear it. Katsudon actually sort of…” he trails off, swallowing as if in great pain. He grimaces. “He, uh, helped me. Like, a lot. So don't apologize.”

Viktor drops his hands from his face. He stares at the alien wearing his student’s skin. (Because really, there’s no other feasible explanation for this sort of benevolent behavior. None at all.) He opens his mouth to ask him who he really is and why he’s taken the place of his favorite student, but the loudspeaker cuts him off before he can get a single syllable out.

 _“And the scores for Yuri Plisetsky’s short program,”_ comes the soft-spoken announcer, stopping the words dead on Viktor’s tongue.

He tenses, and Yurio’s eyes dart up to the screen, wide with anticipation.

One heartbeat. Two.

_“…107.58. Team Russia is now in first place.”_

Yurio lets out a shuddering breath as his name shoots to the top of the leaderboard by a margin of eight whole points as the audience _roars_. Confetti is thrown, everyone in Russia’s box leaps to their feet, and the flashing cameras strike spots into his vision in varying shades of pink, yellow, and white. Viktor lurches forward and wraps his arms around Yurio, locking him in a vice until he squawks in protest.

“I’m so proud of you, Yuratchka—“

“—let me go you _fucking—“_

 _“—_ never been prouder—“

_“VIKTOR.”_

He releases Yurio reluctantly, leaving his arm draped over his student’s shoulders as he aims a megawatt smile at the camera. Yurio is trying his best to look unhappy with Viktor’s attentions, but he’s not doing a very good job of it; a small smile curves one side of his mouth and his hands aren’t clenched into fists for once. Cameras flash, the crowd roars again, and Yurio stands up to wave to his fans, eyes crinkled are the corners with pure joy.

And, somewhere in the crowd, there’s a piercing whistle of congratulations.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the team skate coming soon. Now that the school year is over, I have a lot more time, so I should be able to resume weekly updates, if all goes well. 
> 
> Next up: Minami is annoying and wonderful! Sutemi's shocking short program! Viktor confronts Yuuri about coaching Yurio! A decision is made! Feelings get confusing and mind-blowing things happen! ALL SORTS OF STUFF HOORAY.
> 
> Comment with your favorite line! What gave you warm fuzzies? What broke your heart? I would love to know. 
> 
> Oh, and I guess I should mention I have a Tumblr? Name's llaquearia, if you're interested. I hardly use it, but if you ever want to get ahold of me to ask questions or see excerpts of coming chapters, you can do it there. If I get enough interest, maybe I'll post more regularly on there and take the time to get to know you guys.


	17. not with a bang but a whimper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Optional chapter title: "The One Where Everything Changes")
> 
> Disclaimer: Despite the ridiculous amounts of research I've done on the subject, I do not know all of the rules for figure skating. And quite frankly, I don't care! It's fanfiction. I do what I want. Fight me. That being said, please note how I mentioned that the ISU changed the rules for skating (chapter 14) slightly one year ago (2021). This fic takes place in the future, so anything could happen between now and then; I'm operating under the assumption that the rules have changed slightly since PyeongChang because that's how these things tend to happen. 
> 
> Also, this chapter is approximately 5000 words longer than any chapter before it, so please enjoy this labor of love. I put my heart and soul into it. 
> 
> NOTE: If you want to know what I listened to when writing Sutemi's short program, see the note at the end. I don't want to spoil anything here.

Yuuri stays in his seat after Yurio’s score is announced, fingers curled over his kneecaps with his blunt fingernails pressing half-moon indents into the tight fabric of his trousers. He feels his pulse thrum rhythmically beneath the paper-thin surface of his skin, swollen and surging; it’s like a tune he can’t quite get out of his head, familiar, and yet not. Reverberations of an echo.

He’s anxious.

Not five minutes ago, Yuuri had watched as Viktor steered Yurio by the elbow toward the Kiss and Cry with a tight smile and bright eyes. He feels a pang of loss in the dark recesses of his chest at the memory, coupled with a spike of hair-raising disquiet.

Yuuri used to be able to read Viktor’s face even better than his own, once upon a time. He used to predict his moods by looking at the contour of his perfect mouth, the specific angle of his brow, the fluttering muscle of his jaw.

Now? He’d be lucky to correctly interpret happiness from a fucking _smile._

_Is he angry? Is he confused? Maybe I’m worrying about nothing—he might not even know._

But that’s not true, Yuuri thinks, remembering the shell-shocked expression on Viktor’s face when Yurio skated over to talk to Yuuri before the program started _._ Viktor’s a lot of things, sure, but he’s not stupid. Or blind.

Yuuri just wishes he knew how Viktor felt about it all. Four years ago he would’ve been able to tell.

Four years ago, he would’ve been able to do a lot of things.

“Plisetsky didn’t dip low enough in his lunge,” Sutemi murmurs, frowning faintly as he watches the instant-replay clips flashing across the jumbotron’s massive screens. Yurio’s face is pinched as he goes in for the aforementioned lunge—which, Yuuri has to admit, is indeed pretty shallow. Sutemi’s face sours. “Ugh. His back was at a weird angle, too. Look at that.”

Yuuri pulls absentmindedly at a hangnail on his thumb, eyeing the Kiss and Cry where Viktor sits with his student, eating up the media attention with his trademark gusto. He can barely make out the familiar flash of Viktor’s hair over the heads of reporters and Olympic staff members. “It was a minor error. Probably only lost him a fraction of his GOE points for the move.”

“Well, yeah, but _still._ ” Sutemi gestures at the screen where Yurio is executing a Biellmann spin in slow-motion. His score is displayed in the lower right-hand corner; it’s high, for a short program, but it’s far from a personal best. “Sloppy form. His flexibility’s gone to shit.”

“He’s finishing up his growth spurt. Count yourself lucky that yours hit early.” A pause, and Yuuri gives him a funny look. “Are you actually complaining about this?”

Sutemi scoffs. “Hell no.”

“Really? Because it sounds like you’re complaining.”

He rolls his eyes so far back in his head Yuuri worries they’ll flip upside down in his skull, but Sutemi’s lips twitch, betraying his amusement. “Whatever,” he says flippantly. “I guess I just expected the ‘Ice Tiger of Russia’ or whatever the fuck he’s calling himself these days—“

“Language,” Yuuri says wearily, rubbing his temples.

“—to put up more of a fight, you know?” Sutemi points at the Olympic Rings that are plastered on practically every visible wall throughout the arena. “It’s the _Olympics_. It’s supposed to be, like, hard. Really hard.”

“His free program is the one you should be worried about. Be thankful he’s only doing the short for this event.” Yuuri strains his neck to peer over the heads crowding the Kiss and Cry, but he can’t see Viktor or Yurio anymore. Did they leave already? Maybe they’re off to the side somewhere, being interviewed. He finally sits down with a huff and eyes his student skeptically. “You’re awfully confident for someone who hasn’t even warmed up yet.”

“I’m confident for someone who knows the _facts,_ ” he corrects, grinning. He takes a sip of his water and shrugs noncommittally. “I have to stay positive, Coach. Gotta harness my aura, channel the fu— _crap_ out of my energies. You know, all that hippie stuff.”

“Nice save.”

“Thanks,” he says, looking rather pleased with himself.

On Yuuri’s left, Kenjirou Minami braces his elbows against his knees and leans forward, squinting up at the jumbotron critically. The years have been kind to Minami; he shot up to six feet about two years ago and lost the youthful softness of his face in the process. He’s all sharp angles and sculpted muscles now, but his smile is just as charmingly crooked as the day Yuuri met him.

“I’m just glad I don’t have to skate against Yuri this time around,” he says, grinning. He leans over Yuuri’s lap and reaches out to tap an index finger against Sutemi’s knee. “You weren’t here last time we did this, but you watched, right?”

Sutemi shrugs. “I remember men’s singles better than the team event. Why?”

“Well, I was assigned the short and Yuuri had the free, but we were both against Nikiforov since he was given both.” His eyes widen comically. “ _Both,_ Sutemi-kun. I was terrified.”

Sutemi’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s allowed?”

He nods. “Oh, yeah. They’re really lenient with who does what in this event. But hey, moral of the story—just be thankful Russia’s got another skater for the free this time around. They probably decided it was best not to kill Plisetsky before singles next week.” He shakes his head, eyebrows raised. “Jeez. You’d have to be superhuman to do both. I bet Viktor was exhausted afterwards.”

“He was,” Yuuri murmurs, remembering the way Viktor’d flopped face-first onto their mattress with a groan in their room later that night. He hears the echoes of soft words and tuneless humming in his head, and recalls the feeling of fingers kneading into sore muscles with no small amount of tenderness. There was a shower, he thinks. A shower and… wine. Some kind of wine.

_Mulberry rivulets sluice down the side of the porcelain sink, racing each other to get to the drain. Yuuri’s fingers can’t stop shaking; he sets his glass down, listening to it clatter against the countertop. He hopes Viktor doesn’t hear._

Red wine, then. A merlot. Yuuri remembers it being delicious.

“It was a bloodbath,” Minami amends, his eyes still trained on Sutemi. He gestures wildly when he talks and Yuuri finds himself leaning away to avoid being hit. “Still, we pulled it together in the end and took fourth. Not bad, considering who we were up against.”

“We only got fourth because you scored so high in the short. I didn’t help much,” Yuuri admits, feeling his cheeks burn. He pulls his gloves on and off again just to have something to do. “I’m the reason Japan failed.”

Minami recoils in horror. He presses a palm over his heart like he’s offended. “Yuuri, your free program was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You didn’t fail anyone!”

“Viktor’s was obviously better.”

Sutemi scoffs and waves him off. “Come on, Sensei. Fourth place is, like, close enough to medaling to count, pretty much. A fraction of a point isn’t a big deal.”

Minami nods vigorously, leaning into Yuuri’s personal space with shining eyes. Yuuri crowds against the back edge of his seat, on the verge of tipping to the floor as Minami says fervently, “You were _amazing_ that day, Yuuri. And getting to skate with you was a gold medal achievement all on its own. Even though we didn’t win, I was _honored_ to—”

“Please stop,” Yuuri says weakly. A quick glance at Sutemi shows him rolling his lips between his teeth to bite back laughter as he watches the ridiculous display. He looks far too amused with this situation. Yuuri tries to kick him in the shins. He misses and kicks the support for the bench instead, and Sutemi’s face begins to turn purple with suppressed laughter.

But Minami isn’t deterred in the slightest. He clenches his fist passionately like a man about to make a life-changing speech. “No, listen to me: you’re the greatest skater Japan’s ever seen. No one can top your scores—not me, not Yuzuru, not Shoma. And I won’t rest until you see that, all right? Tomorrow, make sure you watch me, and I’ll _prove_ it to you!” His eyes widen, brightening with an idea, and he scrambles for his phone. He unlocks it and shoves it unceremoniously in Yuuri’s face, showing a mirror selfie of Minami in his costume for tomorrow’s free skate. “See? I modeled it after your _Yuri on Ice_ costume from five years ago. Remember that one?”

Yuuri rubs his eyes and groans in exasperation. “Minami, we’ve talked about this.”

“But I didn’t copy it!” He points at the screen, clearly not realizing that his finger is large enough that he could be pointing at any part of the costume and not just one spot in particular. “It’s _inspired_ by it. See the colors? The twist in the front could be anyone’s, really. I made it subtle, I promise.”

“Your theme this season is _‘memories of the past.’_ ” Sutemi’s voice is flat. “I think people are gonna notice.”

Minami leans back in his seat, frowning down at the photo. His ears turn vaguely pink, like freckled cotton candy. He stuffs the phone back in his pocket. “Well, whatever. I attempted to make it subtle.”

“Attempted and failed,” Sutemi supplies. It earns him a swat from Minami.

“Shut it, Okukawa,” he says, tone light. His incisor glints, the focal point of his smile. “Don’t you have a short program to perform? Go be useful.”

Sutemi’s gaze flickers down toward the far edge of the barrier where the skaters have begun lining up. He sighs. “Yeah, fine, whatever. You sticking around to watch, Minami?”

“Yep! But not here.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got family in the stands. They have a better view than this stupid cramped box.” He eyes Yuuri hopefully. “Unless you _want_ me to stay, of course, in which case I can make an exception—“

Yuuri shifts uncomfortably. “No. I’m, uh. Fine. Just fine.”

“—or I can sit with my family like I planned because that’s what I was going to do anyway. Totally. No big deal.” Laughing nervously, he stands and claps Sutemi on the shoulder. “Good luck out there, Sutemi-kun! I’ll be cheering for you.” Then, scraping up every bit of seriousness in his body, he turns to look at Yuuri with reverence in his eyes. “And… look, I meant what I said. Don’t let the reporters drag you down, okay? PyeongChang was a long time ago, and those of us who were there know better than to listen to their lies. For what it’s worth, Japan’s with you, Yuuri. Count on us.”

And then he’s gone, picking through the crowd and slipping between broad shoulders with grace borne of years of ballet training. Yuuri and Sutemi watch him leave, following that ridiculous red streak in his bangs like it’s a torch until he turns a corner out of sight.

Yuuri slumps his shoulders and lets out a breath. He feels like someone’s come along and tapped him like a maple tree, draining him of every ounce of energy.

Sutemi’s voice is riddled with mirth. “What do you bet he sobbed for days when you announced your retirement?”

“Oh, he did,” Yuuri says tiredly. “I’m sure I could find copies of the voicemails to prove it.” He casts a glance to the countdown clock on the jumbotron, realizing they only have four minutes left until Sutemi has to warm up. “But he’s right—you’d better get down there soon. Don’t want to be late to your first Olympic event.”

He rolls his eyes and huffs. “I was late for competition one time. _One time,_ Sensei. Are you ever going to let that go?”

“Not a chance.”

As Sutemi stands and sheds his jacket to prepare for the warm-up, Yuuri’s eyes begin to aimlessly wander the crowd of people near the Kiss and Cry once again, searching for that familiar shade of platinum that’s haunted his dreams and nightmares for years now. He stands as well, craning his neck to get a better look. He’s not sure what he expects to see—a big thumbs-up from Viktor, a thankful smile, a sign plastered with sloppy bubble letters and bright Crayola marker that says, ‘ _THANKS FOR STEALING MY STUDENT, YOU ASSHOLE.’_ (Though he’ll admit that’s the most likely option out of the three, all things considered.)

While adjusting the collar of his costume, Sutemi frowns down at his coach and follows his gaze toward the surging mass of reporters and attendants surrounding the Kiss and Cry. His face smooths out in understanding. “Ah. Think Nikiforov’s mad at you or something?”

“I don’t know,” Yuuri murmurs honestly. His clenches his fists at his side, the tight leather complaining noisily over his knuckles. “Maybe. Maybe not. Viktor’s… difficult to read most of the time.” _All of the time, actually._

Sutemi’s expression is mild. “He might not even know. Ever think about that?”

“Oh, he knows.”

An eyebrow arches. “How can you be sure?”

 “I just… do _._ ” Yuuri shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it without sounding stupid.” Because describing the precise curve of Viktor’s mouth to a twenty year-old kid in the middle of a crowded stadium would just be weird, and Yuuri doesn’t want his student to know how pathetic he really is underneath all the pinstriped bravado of Phichit’s borrowed suit jacket.

Sutemi considers this, biting the inside of his cheek. “Do you think he’ll say something? You look hella nervous, Sensei.”

“What we did wasn’t _technically_ wrong,” he says quietly.

“Technically,” Sutemi repeats flatly.

“It could be construed as favoritism in some people’s eyes, I suppose, but there’s no rule against it. I checked when we got back to our rooms last night.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I guess I’m just more worried about what he’ll think. Personally, I mean.”

Sutemi gives him a bewildered look. “You’ve never cared about what he thinks. No reason to start now.”

And two weeks ago, Yuuri might have agreed with Sutemi on that front. It would’ve been a lie, of course, but at least it would’ve been a confident one, said with no hesitation.

Now, he hesitates.

He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes copper, leaning into the sensation where it stings. “Maybe so,” he says carefully.

It’s enough of a non-answer, an evasion, that Sutemi frowns and gives Yuuri a mild, inquisitive look. Questions swirl beneath the glassy surface of his dark eyes; a placid lake, edgeless and bottomless. Yuuri drops his gaze to his feet, suddenly ashamed.

 _Does he know?_ Yuuri hopes he’s not half as transparent as he feels.

Then Sutemi purses his lips and tugs on the sleeves of his bodysuit, stretching the Lycra over the ends of his fingers as he gazes out toward the undulating crowd that’s slowly beginning to thin—with no sign of Viktor or Yurio, Yuuri notices. “Well, if he tries anything, he’ll have to go through me. He can complain to the Olympic Committee, tell his mother, blast you on Instagram— whatever. It doesn’t matter, ‘cause I’ll be there to back you up. Okay?”

A tug in his heart. He looks up at his student. “Sutemi—”

“No, I’m serious.” His voice is solid, level. _Absolute_. And in that moment, he looks twenty going on thirty-five, what with his dark lashes and severe cheekbones and eyes that seem to know everything. “I was there last night, so I know what went down. If he starts saying shit—sorry, Sensei—then I’ll, like, be your witness and stuff. Corroborate your story.”

Warmth bubbles up Yuuri’s throat. “You’ve had quite the change of heart since last night, ‘Temi.”

“Yeah, well.” He crosses his arms stubbornly, lifting his chin in the air defiantly. “I have my reasons.”

“Do tell.”

Sutemi’s face sours. “I never said they were _good_ reasons,” he mutters under his breath, kicking at a loose piece of concrete with his guarded toe pick. He glances up at the replay on the jumbotron where Yurio is shown touching down on a triple axel in slow-motion, his flaxen braid whipping out straight from the back of his skull. “Look, Plisetsky might be an ass, but… he’s the only competition I’ve got at these games.” His face hardens. “And I’m not just saying that to be cocky, Sensei, I _mean_ it. He’s the only one who can keep up with me. You know it, too. Don’t try to deny it.”

Yuuri’s lips twitch. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Yeah, so then you know I need him at his best if that gold is going to be worth it.” He pauses, inhaling sharply as if bracing himself for something agonizing. “And if you’re the one who can get Yuri to bring his A-game out there on the ice, then… then I’m all for you training him on the side. Fuck what everyone else says about it and _fuck_ Viktor Nikiforov, too. You’re worth ten of him, even when you’re telling me to do suicides at six AM.”

A pause. Yuuri stares.

“Sorry for cursing again,” he says as an afterthought. His cheeks are pink and he’s avoiding Yuuri’s line of sight.

There’s a tide in Yuuri’s bloodstream, pushing and pulling with the weight of the moon behind it. There’s no stopping it, this feeling that courses through his veins, rushing through the ventricles of his heart and back out again faster than he can even think. He wonders if it’s normal to feel like this—like the sky is splitting open and swallowing him up in a torrent of weightlessness and endless warmth that just feels so infinite, he could probably float if he only had the courage to lift his feet. Cottony softness fills his chest, choking him until his eyes blur and his face burns.

Pride. That’s what this is. It’s _pride._

Yuuri blinks rapidly, willing the boiling tears to evaporate from his eyes. He takes a deep breath, holds it until his ribs burn. _One, two, three._

_And exhale._

He reaches forward and adjusts the diagonal zipper at Sutemi’s throat to keep his fingers from trembling. And so he doesn’t burst into humiliating tears on international television because he’s done that way too many times throughout his life already, thank you very much.

Sutemi’s eyes soften as Yuuri busies himself with straightening the seams of Sutemi’s costume, making sure each silver zipper is locked in place and every wrinkle smoothed out. The black fabric clings tightly to his body, sleeves going past his wrists to cover his palms but leaving his fingers exposed. The zippers are the only decoration—simplicity, just as Sutemi’d requested all those months ago. Something minimal, something modern.

“Is this the part where you give me morally questionable advice?” Sutemi murmurs, his voice vibrating beneath Yuuri’s fingertips. “Rip their throats out, tie them up with their entrails, curse their mothers—all that stuff?”

“This isn’t hockey, so no.” He clasps Sutemi’s shoulders and gives him an encouraging smile that doesn’t feel fake at all, because how could it? He’s never felt more genuine in his life than he does now. “I was just going to say that I’m very proud of you.”

Sutemi’s gaze softens. “Going the mushy route, huh?”

“Oh, so mushy. The mushiest.”

“Right. Well, uh.” He blinks, averting his eyes. His cheeks are rosy beneath his freckles. “Love you too, Coach.”

And with that, Sutemi spins on his heel and marches out of Japan’s box, his head held high. Yuuri watches with thinly-veiled pride as his student descends rinkside, falling in line with the other five skaters from his group. He gets a couple high fives and fist bumps before he settles in beside Luca, one hip braced against the barrier nonchalantly.

Yuuri smiles to himself.

 _He’s going to win._  

 

* * *

 

Viktor’s always been one to overanalyze. He sees symbolism in places he shouldn’t and reads too much into vague half-truths that are closer to dim shadows than actual corporeal things. It’s a gift. It’s a curse. Sometimes it’s neither.

_YuuriYuuriYuuri_

God. Viktor just can’t stop thinking about him.

The memory of Yuuri’s soft eyes and even softer cheeks are imprinted on the backs of Viktor’s eyelids, crystal-clear afterimages in shades of grey that refuse to fade away. Viktor thinks about the glossy sheen of Yuuri’s blue-black hair beneath the harsh, industrial lights of the rink and the way his suit jacket hung off his lithe frame; he thinks of the way Yuuri gripped Yurio’s shoulder minutes before the boy’s performance, whispering what must’ve been advice—the final gasping breath before the plunge.

He thinks of the smile Yuuri had sent Viktor’s way before the program. The small wave.

_It means something._

The sharp flash-pop of a camera sends a smattering of spots to cloud his vision. For the fifth time in ten minutes, Viktor shakes himself out of his reveries and aims a dazzling smile at the perky brunette currently interviewing Yurio after his performance, blinking past the spots as best he can without being obvious. Her teeth are bleached and her hair has been sprayed into a solid mass of loose curls that doesn’t move as much as it should every time she turns her head to the side, and Viktor’s pretty sure she’s wearing no less than half an inch of makeup on her face. It’s almost enough of a catastrophic cosmetic travesty to distract him from his swirling thoughts.

He knows Sutemi will be performing soon—the warm-up has probably already begun out in the arena now that he’s thinking about it. Viktor needs to get back out there so he can track down Yuuri before he gets swept up in the tidal wave of reporters. Ask him _why, why would you do this?_

Viktor wants to ask him lots of things, really. A million and two questions. Not all of them with answers.

But something blossoms in the recessed alcoves of his chest, that shadowed cavern that’s long been scooped clean of everything that matters. Whatever it is, it’s small and pale and the petals are little more than paper-thin wisps, a little ragged at the edges.

But it’s _there._

Viktor doesn’t put a name to it. Not yet. Not while he still knows so little.

He holds his breath, scared of making the petals wilt in the meantime. The interviewer seems to be wrapping up her line of questioning. Viktor feels a surge of anxiousness crest in his stomach. _Just a little longer. Then I’ll find him and ask—_

_Ask him what?_

It takes some time to extricate themselves from the reporter’s clutches. For the first time in a long while, Viktor runs out of smiles for the camera and ends up forcibly dragging Yurio out of the press room, citing sportsmanship and the undeniable need to observe Yurio’s competition for the singles event next week. Yurio mutters obscenities under his breath but allows himself to be dragged along, only doling out a sour-faced thumbs-up for the cameras and a few inspiring notecard-borne words on Russian patriotism.

Once they’re out of sight of the reporters, however, Yurio yanks his arm free and glares fervently. Viktor’s too frazzled to care. He runs a hand through his fringe and tries to regain control over his composure, but they’re in one of the nondescript hallways beneath the rink and the industrial fluorescents overhead do very little to mask his pale complexion. A few skaters wander past, eyes glazed over with nerves, and Viktor can hear the rumble of the crowds through the concrete above them. He shouldn’t feel claustrophobic in a hallway this vast, but he can’t help it.

Yurio’s brows knit together in a scowl that’s tinged with faint traces of mild concern and annoyance. He takes half a step backwards. “Are you, like, about to lose your shit or something? Because if that’s the case, I really don’t want to be here when that happens.”

“I have to find him,” Viktor breathes. He shakes his head. “I have to— I don’t know what, but I have to do _something._ Jesus.”

“I’ll take that as a hard yes, then.” Yurio sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes, reaching up to undo the braids in his hair with quick, jerky movements. “Viktor. You realize this is not an invitation to sleep with Katsudon again, right? Tell me you realize that. Please, for the love of god.”

“I realize that. I still need to find him.”

“Why, so you can rip him a new one for going behind your back?” Yurio shuffles on his feet and scowls. “Look, even if you didn’t ask Katsudon to train me, _I’m_ the one who actually went through with it. Don’t just be pissed at him. We’re both at fault.”

“That’s not it.” Viktor takes a deep breath and tries to slow his jackrabbit pulse, half-worried his heart will leap out of his chest and make a break for it. “Trust me, I’m not mad. I just need to talk to Yuuri about… things.”

“Things.” Yurio looks decidedly unimpressed.

“Yes, things. Adult things.” Viktor grips Yurio by the shoulders and spins him around before pushing him off toward the far end of the hallway. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

A snarl of indignation. “Viktor, I am twenty _fucking_ years old.”

“Semantics,” Viktor says, waving the young skater off. “Now run along and head back to Yakov before the warm-up ends. I’ll catch up with you at dinner.”

Yurio plants his feet like a tree, fists clenched. “And if Yakov asks where you are?”

“Tell him I’m dead.”

A snort. “Yeah, because that’ll totally fuckin’ work.”

“Well, stranger things have happened. Now _go._ There’s no time.” He gestures toward the far end of the hallway where a pinprick of light can be seen, the echoes of murmuring spectators and the hum of the rink reverberating down the hall like the ever-present rush of blood in his ears—a large, unknowable beast of solid noise and confusion. Viktor feels his skin prickle with anticipation just thinking about it.

Adrenaline. It’s a hell of a thing.

With a huff, Yurio flips Viktor off before shoving his fists in his pocket and walking away, shoulders slumped—the poster child of adolescent angst. His hair spills down his back in golden threads, some of it crimped and knotted into something untamable and frightening, but Yurio just put Russia in first place so Viktor figures he can get away with looking like a homeless person. At least until dinnertime. (The blue Crocs on his feet, however, are unspeakably atrocious. Viktor cringes at the sound of silicone stretching. There truly is no god.)

But Yurio’s about ten feet away when he stops and whirls around, knotted hair becoming even more of a rat’s nest than before. His eyes are razor-thin emerald slits, his brow set low above them. A feral tom cat in Crocs. _Terrifying_.

“You’re about to do something really stupid, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice tinged with faint notes of resignation and anger. “And don’t bullshit me, Nikiforov. Tell me the truth.”

Viktor reaches up to clutch the fabric of his overcoat, pressing against his heart. That little paper-thin blossom of _something_ surges dangerously in his chest. “I… I don’t know. Maybe.”

_“Maybe?”_

“I hope not,” he amends.

Yurio regards him carefully for several seconds, eyeing him up and down. His eyes linger on Viktor’s bright eyes and flushed cheeks, the way his fingers tap nervously against his thigh and his shuffling feet. He’s a man possessed.

Yurio closes his mouth, clenching his jaw. He throws his hands up into the air. “Fine. Whatever. Do what you want, see if I care.” He jabs a finger in Viktor’s direction. “But you owe me for lying to Yakov, you goddamn _antique_. And I plan to collect.”

And with that, Yurio turns on his heel and storms off down the hallway, muttering under his breath in Russian. Viktor doesn’t hear any of it. All he can hear is the warbled voice of the announcer echoing through the concrete walls, most likely announcing the end of the warm-up period for the second group of skaters. Viktor doesn’t hesitate; he turns and jogs in the opposite direction toward the side of the rink where Japan’s box sits, slipping past skaters and their coaches with little regard for how ridiculous he looks.

When he emerges from the concrete underbelly of the rink, the metallic, cold scent of the ice cuts through his senses, clearing his head for a few blissful moments. His heart is still racing in his chest, pounding against his ribcage with unfamiliar fervor; Viktor does his best to slow his pulse so he can hear something other than the deafening rush of blood in his ears and the tiny voice in his head that’s asking _why why why?_

Viktor doesn’t have any answers for anyone. Especially himself. No, at this point, everything is just a reaction.

Knee-jerk. Instinctual.

Viktor stands up on his tiptoes to peer over the heads of the people milling around the edges of the bracket. He spies Russia’s box across the ice—Yurio is whispering something in Otabek’s ears and Yakov looks like he’s fuming beneath the brim of his hat, his lips pressed into an angry, thin line. Viktor’ll have an earful later, no doubt.

Viktor spies Chris near the entrance to the ice with Luca’s jacket thrown over his arm. He’s talking to his skater in hushed tones, eyebrows drawn together as he gives him final tips before he performs. Viktor recognizes a few other skaters milling about nearby as well. He squints, checking each of their faces for—

Ah, there he is. Viktor approaches Sutemi without bothering to wonder if this is a terrible idea.

Sutemi is lounging against the padded bracket near the other skaters who have only recently gotten off the ice from their warm-up, his elbows and lower back braced against the top edge as he surveys the frantic crowd of Olympic staff members and young attendants who scurry in every feasible direction. The boy’s hair is styled away from his face, revealing sharp cheekbones and wicked eyeliner reminiscent of Yurio’s past exhibition skates, though Sutemi’s makeup isn’t nearly as severe or overwhelming. His costume is all clean, black lines and silver zippers with a high neckline that brushes his Adam’s apple.

When he sees Viktor approaching, Sutemi’s relaxed, confident expression instantly hardens into something unrecognizable; his sneer is chiseled out of solid marble—rough enough to scrape Viktor bloody if he gets too close.

(He actually looks a little bit terrifying. Like the angel of death, or something cliché like that. Viktor can’t figure out why it makes him so uneasy.)

“The fuck do you want?” Sutemi spits once Viktor is within range. A few attendants look up with raised eyebrows at the unabashed vitriol in his tone, but Sutemi either doesn’t notice them or doesn’t care. He’s venomous and poised to bite.

Viktor swallows. He can’t let fear deter him now; he’s already come this far. “I’m trying to find Yuuri,” he says carefully, each word measured. “Do you know where he is?”

“Why?” The question is flat and harsh, stated with the abruptness of a gunshot.

Viktor straightens up. “I need to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“That’s between me and Yuuri. I’m sorry.” And he’s surprised to find that he means it. Despite the fact that Sutemi punched Yurio, Viktor’d like to think that Sutemi’s actually a good kid. He _must_ be, if Yuuri’s the one training him.

But Sutemi’s eyes narrow even further, his lip curling in disgust. “Oh, get _fucked_ , Nikiforov. He doesn’t want to talk to you any more than I do. Just accept it. Go back to your box and leave us both the hell alone.”

“No, you don’t understand—“

“I don’t understand?” Sutemi snaps, surging into Viktor’s personal space. His obsidian eyes are cold and hateful as he looks Viktor up and down, contempt rolling off him in palpable waves. “Don’t patronize me, asshole. I understand a lot more than you think.”

Viktor feels himself pale. The noise around them dies down into a muffled hum that Viktor feels through the soles of his feet. Suddenly, he feels inexplicably cold. “He told you what happened,” says Viktor hollowly. “In PyeongChang.”

Sutemi rolls his eyes. “No, you moron. He didn’t.”

He’s trying to fit two jigsaw pieces together and failing, trying every permutation to make them mesh with each other. Viktor blinks. “Then why—“

“Because I know what stuck-up, self-absorbed people look like,” Sutemi snaps sharply. His voice is a low hiss of derision laced with deep-seated, sour resentment. “I know what it’s like to look up to someone and get shit on, to get tossed aside and forgotten because _their_ shit ended up being more important than yours. I may not know the details of what went down with you two, Nikiforov, but I’m not stupid. I can connect the dots.”

There’s an unbearable, growing pressure somewhere in Viktor’s chest. He feels lightheaded, unbalanced on his feet—the slightest breeze could tip him over and shatter him across the concrete, he knows. “I don’t—“ he stammers, clutching the front of his overcoat. Viktor shakes his head and tries to keep his hands from shaking. “That’s… _no_. You have it all wrong.” Everyone’s always had it so _wrong._

“Do I?” he challenges, jaw set. “Do I really? Or are you just saying that to make yourself feel better about ruining my coach’s career four years ago?”

Viktor doesn’t know. He doesn’t _know_. There’s too much noise in his brain, drowning out everything except the stabbing pain in his chest and the voice that keeps repeating _my fault, my fault, my fault._ He’s trapped in an echo chamber of his own design, listening to his thoughts directed back at him by the thousands, and Sutemi’s voice is rolling into a solid wall of sound that hits him with the force of a tsunami.

He has no answers for the boy. He has no answers for _himself_. He probably never will _._

Impatience twists Sutemi’s expression into something unrecognizable. “Answer me, asshole!”

But words fail Viktor. The tense silence stretches on, endless and taut like a bowstring. Viktor doesn’t dare to breathe for fear of further upsetting the precarious balance he’s disrupted so thoroughly. God, he should’ve _known_ this would happen; Sutemi’s loyalty runs deep, but his temper runs deeper. Viktor needs an escape, and he needs one fast.

Thoughts and heart racing, Viktor opens his mouth to sputter something—an excuse, a plea for mercy, _anything—_ but someone beats him to it.

“That’s enough, Sutemi.”

In an instant, the fierce, furious expression on Sutemi’s face crumbles; his eyes widen and his skin turns white as a sheet as he looks over Viktor’s shoulder with abject terror etched deeply into his features. The boy’s shoulders curl inward and he takes a hesitant step away from Viktor, fingers fidgeting as they lace together nervously. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Viktor, on the other hand, is frozen to the spot. His bones are suddenly made of metal, heavy and welded together at the joints like an armature. He tenses when he feels the weight of Yuuri’s hand settle on his shoulder, warm and gentle, as the Japanese coach comes up behind him on his left.

And _oh,_ he looks even nicer up close.

Viktor can’t help but follow the gentle slope of Yuuri’s neck, eyes tracing over the soft angle of his jaw where it meets his ear. His hair is immaculate and silky, a few pieces here and there escaping the confines of the pomade he no doubt painstakingly worked through the strands earlier this morning. At this distance, Viktor can also see the lines of tension that bracket Yuuri’s mouth and eyes as he looks up at his student with muted disappointment, his eyebrows knit together.

Beneath Yuuri’s hand, Viktor’s skin burns.

Yuuri purses his lips and lifts an eyebrow as he regards his student carefully. “’Temi,” he says softly, though there is an undercurrent of razor-sharp steel that Viktor almost misses.

Sutemi’s cheeks flush bright red with shame and he drops his head, keeping his gaze trained on the toes of his skates. “Sorry,” he says lamely. “I just—“

But Yuuri clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “No, no. Don’t apologize to me. I’m not the one you insulted. Apologize to _Viktor_.”

Viktor startles at the sound of his name at the exact moment Sutemi’s head snaps up, an incredulous look on his face. Sutemi’s brows come together at a steep angle and he gestures sharply to Viktor before rattling off something in rapid-fire Japanese that Viktor can’t keep up with for the life of him. The punctuated syllables bounce around inside his head fruitlessly. He catches his name at one point, spit venomously from the lips of the hot-headed skater, but Yuuri’s sharp voice stops him short once again. He reprimands his student, jaw set and shoulders straight, with words Viktor wishes he could understand.

Finally, Sutemi huffs, his cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment and a million other emotions Viktor can’t identify. He glares up at Viktor and clenches his teeth, blowing air through them.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, not sounding very sorry at all. But upon receiving a narrow-eyed stare from his coach, he sighs softly and tries again. “I’m _really_ sorry, all right? I’m just… stressed. For the short program and stuff. Obviously. I, uh, didn’t mean what I said.”

 _Yes you did,_ Viktor’s mind supplies, but he shunts that voice off to the side long enough for him to smile tightly and nod. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

It’s a Band-Aid on a larger, festering wound that hasn’t even begun to heal, and Yuuri clearly knows this. He lets out a weary exhale and runs a hand over his face before gesturing off toward the other side of the ice. “Sutemi, go finish your stretches in the warm-up room with Harper. I’ll be there in a moment. And before you ask,” he adds pointedly, cutting the boy off, “ _yes,_ you are in trouble. But for right now, you need to focus on your short program. We will discuss this later.”

“But—“

“ _Later.”_

Sutemi nods dejectedly and taps his toe pick against the ground, keeping his gaze trained on his feet. “Okay. M’sorry, Sensei.”

Giving a stiff, perfunctory bow, the boy darts off into the surging crowd of other skaters and coaches that are milling around the edge of the rink, waiting for the second group of short programs to begin. Sutemi keeps his head down until he turns a corner to descend into the underbelly of the rink, no doubt very thankful he’s out of the frying pan—however temporary his escape might be.

Uncomfortable silence descends like a heavy curtain, smothering Viktor. The tension that floats between the two opposing coaches is tangible, and Viktor fumbles for something to do with his hands, his mouth, his voice. He’s numb from head to toe, tingling like television static. He knows he should say something. He’d sought Yuuri for a reason, hadn’t he? Surely Viktor can find _something_ worth saying to the man who had once held his heart for so long.

In the end, it’s Yuuri who speaks. “I’m sorry about him,” he says, cringing faintly. He looks in the direction Sutemi went, lips crooked in a sad half-smile. “It probably doesn’t mean much coming from me, but he means well.”

Say something. Say _anything,_ dammit.

Viktor clears his throat awkwardly and fidgets his fingers against his thigh. “Oh. It’s, uh. It’s fine. I don’t think he likes me very much.” He flashes Yuuri a brief, pained smile. “Just a hunch.”

“I think it’s a pretty good hunch,” Yuuri tells him, voice wry and slightly teasing. He reaches up to push his glasses up his nose. “He’s a good kid, Viktor. Just… protective. And loud. Very, very loud.”

“It’s okay, Yuuri. Really,” Viktor assures him. He grimaces. “I’ve heard a lot worse before, believe me.”

“That doesn’t make it okay. He didn’t have the right to say those things to you.”

“Doesn’t mean he was wrong about any of it.”

“Viktor.” He looks up to meet Yuuri’s steady gaze, all warm browns and little flecks of something darker that reminds Viktor of mulled wine at Christmas. His eyes are impossibly sad beneath a thin veneer of complacency that hasn’t been able to fool Viktor since the day they met. “Please, Sutemi didn’t mean what he said to you. You were an easy target, that’s all. It wasn’t personal.”

“Felt personal,” he mumbles.

“He’s protective and impulsive, not vindictive. Twenty year-old boys aren’t that complex, I’ve found. You’re giving him too much credit.”

Viktor can’t help the snort that escapes. “You say that like I’m not training one myself.” If anything, Viktor would argue that Yurio is the _definition_ of vindictive and complex. He almost envies Yuuri for the simplicity of his protégé.

Softly, Yuuri’s exhales through his nose, his shoulders slumping beneath the sharp lines of his suit. Viktor watches him carefully, noting the anxiousness floating beneath the placid surface of his skin like an invisible riptide, waiting to pull Viktor away from shore and drown him. Wordlessly, Yuuri stuffs his hands in his pockets and jerks his chin in the direction of the padded barrier a few steps away. “Luca’s starting soon. I promised Chris I’d watch.”

Viktor blinks dumbly as Yuuri brushes past him, slipping through the crowd of people. Yuuri braces his elbows against the barrier and leans his weight forward, lacing his gloved fingers together as he gazes out across the ice, a few black strands of hair falling in front of his eyes. Ink stain tendrils, softer than silk. Viktor wishes he could touch them.

When Yuuri realizes Viktor hasn’t moved an inch, he aims a confused glance over his shoulder. He arches an eyebrow.

“You coming?” he asks.

Viktor stares, suddenly sure he’s dreaming or that his entire world’s been flipped inside out and gone through a heavy-duty rinse cycle. “What?”

Yuuri looks pointedly down at the empty space to his left, mouth pinched in incredulous amusement. “I’m inviting you to watch Luca’s routine with me.”

“Why?”

Yuuri shrugs, turning back to face the rink. “I’ve always liked your commentary, Viktor.”

Standing there, hands clenched into fists while the universe twists and bends around him, Viktor remembers a time of buttery popcorn and slipper socks, plush couches, and quilts pulled up to noses while skaters danced across the iridescent screen of Viktor’s television in startling high definition. Tangled limbs like trellised vines beneath the covers. Hisses, cheers, and sympathetic groans doled out during key parts of certain performances; Viktor always whispered subtle criticisms of the skaters in Yuuri’s ear, the sound of Viktor’s voice pressed into his flesh like a secret. An invisible tattoo.

Viktor lets out a shuddering breath. This is not Viktor’s apartment, and there is no popcorn.

And yet.

If he’s dreaming, he might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Chin held high, Viktor crosses the floor to stand next to Yuuri, trying his damnedest to keep his eyes glued to Luca’s lithe form as he makes his final waves and bows to the judges. Viktor absorbs Yuuri’s presence through his skin, drinking him in for all he’s worth. Who knows when he’ll get another chance like this?

“Predictions?” Yuuri asks, tilting his head in Viktor’s direction. His tone is light.

Viktor takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly through his teeth. He shrugs. “Base technical score will probably roll in around 70, I’d guess. But he probably won’t go above 85 points total.”

Yuuri hums. “Sounds low.”

“Well, he barely has two quads under his belt. It’s not that much of a stretch.”

“Jumps aren’t everything.”

“No, but they certainly help.” He pauses and frowns down at Yuuri. “You really think he’ll score higher than 85?”

He lifts his shoulders an inch before dropping them. “Maybe. I don’t know. His performance scores are usually pretty high, so that might pull him up to a 90. Maybe even 95, assuming he hits all of his jumps.”

Viktor purses his lips, refraining from telling Yuuri how heart-bleeding optimistic that sentiment is. If what Chris has told him is any indication of the boy’s performance, Luca’s lacking technical score won’t be able to make his team break the top five this afternoon—unless the French ice dancers are especially good. He decides to change the subject.

“I saw Sutemi’s flip the other day at the rink,” Viktor says quietly. Yuuri’s gaze darts up to meet his, eyebrows furrowed, but his confusion clears moments later. Recognition dawns in his eyes.

“Ah. Yes, I remember seeing you there. That was Monday, wasn’t it?” Viktor nods, and Yuuri accepts it, looking thoughtful. He taps his lip with a finger. “Mm. Didn’t know you saw the flip. We’ve been waiting to unveil that one.”

“It was good,” he concedes. “Nice form. Clean landing.”

“I know.” His voice is tinged with pride, eyes smiling faintly. “He still has trouble with his free leg coming around before the take-off, but… yeah. He’s pretty proud of it.”

“How many jumps are in his program today?”

“Four quads.”

Viktor jolts, eyes going wide as saucers. Surely he must’ve heard Yuuri wrong. _Surely._ Movements stiff, he turns to Yuuri only to see him smiling slyly, eyes crinkled at the edges as he absorbs Viktor’s stunned reaction.

“ _Four?_ ” Viktor repeats, not caring if he sounds half as shell-shocked as he feels. “In a short program? Are you insane?”

Yuuri chuckles, pushing his elbows off the barrier to brace his hands against the edge. “I think Sutemi’s the insane one, actually. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t go off-book and change one of his triples to a quad-triple combination at the last second.”

“Why on Earth would he do that?”

“Because he loves giving me a heart attack,” Yuuri says simply, his voice weary and full to bursting with affection. He glances sidelong at Viktor, one eyebrow quirked up. “He’d also love to win a medal or two while we’re here. Get a few more sponsorship deals. You know—the usual things every skater wants.”

Viktor snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s not asking for much, is he?”

“Oh, he’s not asking,” Yuuri murmurs, his eyes traveling out toward Luca where he is striking his starting pose in the center of the ice. “Not anymore.”

Somewhere out on the ice, Luca begins to skate. His music is something instrumental with lush, surging strings and the rumble of a timpani, but Viktor cannot, for the life of him, tear his eyes away from Yuuri in that moment. The angle of his stiff jaw, parallel with the line of the floor and the lowness of his brow as he scrutinizes Luca’s performance. He looks dangerous. Vicious. Familiar, yet not.

If Sutemi is the angel of death, then Yuuri is the vengeful god who sent him.

Viktor sucks in a deep breath and clenches his fists. He finds that pale green sprout of courage and he _pulls_ on it until he yanks it out of the soft soil of his chest, root and all. “Yuuri, I—“

But Yuuri shushes him softly, eyes glued to Luca’s performance. “We need to pay attention.”

“But—“

“Later,” he says past the fingers that are pressed against the seam of his full mouth in thought. His gaze flickers up to Viktor’s for a brief second; Viktor sees the shadow of promise and something indecipherable hidden in those lush, warm depths. Yuuri bites his lip nervously. “Look, I… I know why you’re here. Trust me when I say we will talk about it later, once all of this is over and I can actually think about something other than Sutemi’s short program results. Please, Viktor.”

Somewhere on the ice, Luca lands a jump. A quad, a triple, maybe even a double—it doesn’t matter. The crowd still cheers and cameras flash, capturing the moment for the entire world to see. Small victories in amber.

And Viktor doesn’t care about any of it. He only cares about the beautiful Japanese man looking up at him with hesitance in the creases around his eyes and slightly-chapped lips that Viktor wishes he could sink his teeth into. The line of Yuuri’s pale, unmarked throat taunts him—the same throat that used to vibrate so pleasantly beneath the pressure of Viktor’s mouth, emitting sounds no one else had ever heard before.

It’s stupid to hope. Everything about this is stupid.

_I don’t care anymore._

Swallowing thickly, Viktor manages a slow nod, eyes still trained on Yuuri. He hopes his words are English when he says, “Y-yes. Of course. Take all the time you need.”

More applause from the crowd, muted and buzzing in his ear like a swarm of insects. Yuuri smiles. “I’ll find you tonight, then.” He frowns softly, suddenly unsure. “Unless… you already have plans?”

Viktor shakes his head numbly. “No plans. Just, ah. Dinner. With the team. I’m completely free after that.”

“Oh. Good.” His smile is brighter than a sun flare and gone just as quick. Eyeing Luca’s routine as it comes to a close, he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’d better go find Sutemi before Luca finishes up. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

It’s phrased as a question, as if he expects Viktor to suddenly change his mind and say no. Like he’s _actually_ capable of doing such a thing. His responding nod is perhaps a little too enthusiastic. “ _Yes._ Later. Definitely. I’m, uh—” he swallows “I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Great!” He grins, but then falters slightly. “I mean, not _great,_ but, like. Good. That’s… good.” He clears his throat and averts his gaze, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “Is your number still the same? You know, in case I can’t find you or something.”

“I haven’t changed it. Or you could always just knock on my door.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Okay.”

A few beats of nothingness pass between them, tension drawn taut like a mainstay. They watch each other carefully, eyes skimming over each other’s faces, searching and searching and searching for _something._ But what is it? Viktor wishes he could peel apart Yuuri’s many layers and slip between them to parse through the puzzle pieces of his heart, to _learn._ He wants. He wants so much.

Then, applause. Luca’s routine is over.

Yuuri disappears.

Viktor sucks in a deep breath, sagging heavily against the bracket like his knees can no longer support the crushing weight bearing down on his chest. He feels like if he tumbled to the floor fast enough, he’d break through the concrete and keep plummeting until he found the red-hot center of the Earth. Or is there helium in his veins, lifting him off the ground and whisking him into space? He can’t tell. It doesn’t make sense, not at all, but Viktor’s laughing and he’s happy and hopeful and he _does not care._

A thousand different images flash through Viktor’s brain as he contemplates the possibility of _tonight_. He pictures Yuuri knocking softly on the door of Viktor’s room, a nervous smile on his face and glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. He imagines Yuuri offering to take Viktor out for drinks at a nearby lounge in the heart of the city. He imagines a long, sweet conversation—awkward at first, perhaps, but he imagines the growing pains lessening as time slips past and the moon rises ever higher in the sky. He imagines tumbling back into one of their rooms with the fuzziness of alcohol mixed into their heated blood, hands and mouths everywhere, pulling and tugging with abandon at any fabric they can find. Skin against skin. Swallowed gasps and murmured benedictions. The promise of something healed.

“I am so fucked,” Viktor groans, dropping his forehead against the barrier with a low _thunk._ He can’t get those ridiculous, tempting images out of his mind. “So unbelievably _fucked.”_

“Mm. Not quite, darling, but it certainly looks like you’re on the right track.”

Startled, Viktor’s head snaps up just as Chris slips into the empty spot on his left, hazel eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed. Bewildered, Viktor aims a confused look over at the Kiss and Cry—which is now empty, even though Viktor hadn’t seen it occupied to _begin_ with—before he finally looks up at the jumbotron where a bright red number is flashing in the lower corner of some slow-motion replays of Luca’s performance.

Oh. Luca got a 92.49.

Yuuri had been right.

“Congratulations,” Viktor tells an expectant-looking Chris, still perplexed as to how he’d managed to miss the entirety of Team France’s results. He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose until it hurts. “He did, um… well.”

Chris rolls his eyes and spears Viktor with an unamused look. “You didn’t even watch it. And don’t lie to me, _chéri._ I saw you over here canoodling with Katsuki.”

“We were not _canoodling,”_ he corrects, tearing his fingers through his hair with no regard for the tangles that have collected there. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means—“

“I couldn’t honestly care less, Christophe. We weren’t doing anything besides talking.”

“And you say that like it’s not the most monumental thing that’s happened between you two since PyeongChang,” Chris says flatly. He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. He gives Viktor an expectant look. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What happened?”

“Nothing.” He runs a hand over his face, exhaling through his fingers. “ _Everything_. Hell, I don’t know. I’m still freaking out about it.”

“Well, you look remarkably put-together for someone who’s freaking out. Bravo.”

Viktor shoots a mildly annoyed glare in Chris’ direction. The man is smirking, completely amused with Viktor’s pain. “Don’t you have interviews to attend? Or, I don’t know— _anything_ else to do that doesn’t involve making fun of my suffering?”

“Oh, quit being so melodramatic,” Chris says, waving him off. “And Luca prefers to do his interviews alone. Claims I hover too much or something absurd like that. I don’t know where he gets it, honestly.”

“So you decided to kill time with me.” Viktor is deadpan. “I’m so lucky.”

“Don’t look at me like that, dear; you’ll get frown lines.”

Viktor continues to frown. Partly because he’s upset. Mostly because he’s not sure his face knows any other expression at this point. Chris heaves a sigh.

“Oh, come on. Cheer up!” Chris reaches over and drapes an arm over Viktor’s shoulders, shaking him slightly and sweeping his arm out across the ice that seems to stretch in front of them for miles. “You’re finally on the road to recovery with the light of your life, your precious Yuuri. This is _good_ news. You should be happy!”

“I am,” he says unhappily.

An exasperated sigh. “You are simply the _worst_ liar when it comes to things like this.” He gestures at the slump of Viktor’s shoulders, the tight corners of his mouth. “Why aren’t you jumping for joy right now? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Viktor grimaces and rubs his eyes. “Chris, I’m _terrified_. What if I have my hopes up for nothing?”

“Well, he trained your student for you, so I think it’s safe to get your hopes up just a teensy bit. Enough to ask the man to dinner sometime, at least—”

Viktor whirls around, cutting him off abruptly. He stares wide-eyed at Chris. “How did you know about that?”

To Chris’ credit, he only looks mildly annoyed at having been interrupted so rudely. He crosses his arms over his chest and inhales deeply. “Come now, Viktor; any skater worth their salt knew about it the second Yuri stepped onto that ice _._ It was bloody obvious. The boy’s step sequences were positively disgraceful three days ago—no offense, darling, please don’t scowl at me like that—but now they’re starting to flow together and look almost halfway decent! It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Yuuri’s signature style is all over that boy’s routine.”

His words send a spike of panic through Viktor’s gut he can’t quite explain, and his knuckles strain beneath his gloves as he clenches his fists. Upon seeing Viktor’s pale face, however, Chris gives him a softer, more placating look and touches his arm gently. “I wouldn’t worry about people knowing, dear. If you put Yuuri up to training Yurio on the side, it’s not a big deal. There’s no rule against it.”

“But I didn’t put him up to it!” Viktor groans, pressing his hands against his eye sockets. “Yuuri just _did_ it and apparently I’m the last one to know, as per usual. And I have no idea what any of it means.”

“Well, you’ve officially had two conversations with the man in the past week, so I’d say you’ve got permission to walk up and ask him yourself. He clearly doesn’t hate you as much as you thought.”

Viktor grunts noncommittally and looks out across the ice, refusing the meet Chris’ questioning gaze. “Well,” he mumbles, “maybe he should.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do, actually.”

Chris groans in irritation. “It’s been _four bloody years,_ Viktor. Surely Yuuri’s gotten over everything by now. You’ve both had time to process everything and work through what happened on your own terms. If he’s talking to you and training Yuri again, maybe it’s a sign that he’s ready.”

“Or maybe he’s just doing it to be nice,” Viktor says miserably.

“Or _maybe,”_ Chris snaps, “it means exactly what you think it means. _Maybe_ you’re just being a self-flagellating bastard who’s perfectly content to shit all over the opportunity Yuuri’s presented to you on a silver platter. Did you ever think about that?” Chris lets out an exasperated breath, shaking his head. “ _Mon Dieu_. You two truly deserve each other, I swear. Divas, the lot of you.”

For several crucial seconds, Viktor contemplates shoving Chris to the floor like the world’s most mature-looking seven year-old—surely no one would notice, what with all the commotion going on around them—but the soft, bone-chilling voice of the announcer comes on overhead, freezing Viktor’s blood in his veins.

 _“The next skater represents Japan,”_ she says, her voice bland and purely informational. The same announcement is rattled off in several other languages before the same woman comes on again, announcing the name Viktor’s been waiting to hear since he arrived.

“ _Sutemi Okukawa-Reid.”_

On the far side of the rink, Viktor watches with bated breath as Sutemi steps onto the ice, shaking out his arms and rolling his shoulders as he does a basic lap, strides long and low; with the surprising breadth of his shoulders and his daunting height, he looks closer to thirty rather than twenty. The black blades of his skates glint ominously in the bright lights and flashing cameras, blending in with his sleek bodysuit like the skates are actually a part of him, attached at every nerve ending.

Viktor spots Yuuri near the gate, holding onto Sutemi’s Team Japan jacket. His fingers are pressed against his chin, eyes narrowed into slits as he watches his student mimic the beginning of a toe loop without the take-off. A lunge, a single axel, a Mohawk turn. When his face catches the light, Viktor notices there’s a faint smile on Yuuri’s lips. Something devious, something wicked.

_He knows something we don’t._

Chris presses up against Viktor’s side, all amusement gone from his expression as he absorbs the scene in front of them. His arms are crossed, eyebrows knit together and lips thin with apprehension and suspicion. He looks frighteningly serious as he watches Sutemi make one more lap.

“He’s got something up his sleeve,” Chris murmurs, voice low enough that Viktor has to strain to hear him above the smatterings of applause from the Japanese audience members.

Viktor smirks. “My, my, Christophe. You almost sound scared _._ ”

But the indignation Viktor expects does not come. Instead, Chris merely arches one eyebrow, his lips turned down at the corners in mild concern. “Aren’t you?”

It gives Viktor pause. There’s a simmering something in the pit of his stomach that could be some kind of fear, he supposes mildly. Fear of the unknown, maybe? The sharp breath before a leap of faith, the heartbeat before a triple axel? Or perhaps it’s just run-of-the-mill anxiousness.

Or maybe the burbling in his throat is evidence of the faint worry Viktor carries that Sutemi could unseat Yurio, tipping the scales in Japan’s favor with a well-executed quad flip in the second half. The boy’s a wild card, a shark in placid waters. Viktor hates not knowing what to expect just as much as he loves it; the suspense makes his skin itch.

Out on the ice, Sutemi skates past Yuuri, who gives his student a steep nod while maintaining eye contact; their expressions are grave with mutual understanding. Sutemi’s jaw clenches. Hands at his side, he gives Yuuri a subtle thumbs up before spinning on his toe to head toward the center of the rink.

“Here we go,” Chris mutters.  

The stands begin to quiet down when the crowd realizes Team Japan’s skater is assuming his starting position. It’s nothing special, Viktor notes—Sutemi’s feet are shoulder-width apart and his hands are splayed out against his thighs, his chin tilted sharply toward the ceiling. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

Silence falls, thick and electric. One moment. Two.

Viktor holds his breath.

The music hits like a clap of deafening _thunder_ , the beat sharp and steady enough to make Viktor’s heart skip a beat in his chest in its attempt to catch up. Sutemi jerks his arms above his head and out to the side with the contemporary rhythm, his teeth bared in a feral grin that sends currents of electricity skittering throughout the arena. His movements are wild and free, but there’s a razor-sharp edge of control to every gesture, every seductive roll of his hips. The spectators all shift in their seats, scooting up to sit on edge; a knee-jerk reaction to the garish display out on the ice.

But Viktor?

Viktor can’t _move._ He can only watch, wide-eyed, as Sutemi bangs out a fucking exhibition routine on the ice like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like this isn’t the Olympics at all, but some private practice without a single soul in the stands.

The beat reverberates through the floor, shuddering through Viktor’s bones like a force of nature. Sutemi pushes off backwards, flipping back and forth with his change-foot spins with dangerous precision and finesse. The music is in some language he doesn’t recognize—Korean, perhaps?—and sounds like something straight out of a pulsing, neon nightclub rather than a professional figure skating routine. Viktor’d expected the pretentious familiarity of strings and glockenspiels to ring out through the speakers, not the steady, booming bass that’s currently drowning out the hushed murmur of the crowd.

“What is he _doing?”_ Chris breathes, covering his mouth with a hand. His expression is horrified.

“He’s committing professional suicide,” Viktor says grimly. Eyeing the sidelines, he notices that Yuuri is watching his student, completely stone-faced and utterly unfazed. Viktor frowns and shakes his head slightly, trying to sort his thoughts. “Why did the committee accept this routine? It’s not standard.”

“Fucking _gaudy_ is what it is,” Chris snaps. He grips the edge of the barrier until his knuckles turn white, shaking his head back and forth. He moans pitifully. “I can’t watch,” he cries, covering his face with his hands, but he drops them just as quickly. “Yet, I can’t _stop_ watching. I’m so conflicted.”

Viktor waves him off, eyes glued to Sutemi as the boy darts from one end of the rink to the other, his back arching and hips swaying to the rapid-fire cadence of his song. His dancing is all hard edges and black bitterness mixed with an undeniable amount of _fun_ that makes Viktor miss those late night practices where he would skate spontaneously to whatever music came up next on his iPod; sometimes it was smooth jazz and other times it was a heavy techno beat that made his blood sing and his jumps feel ten times higher than before, his mind totally free of the weight of societal expectation and stagnant point values.

Sutemi lifts his arms as he dips into a deep lunge, heading toward Viktor’s end of the rink. He skates backwards with long strides, each one matching seamlessly to the pulsing tempo of the song. He grins devilishly before he swings out his leg and—

A quad flip, perfectly landed.

Applause ripples across the stands, a dull roar against the music. Sutemi pumps both of his fists after the landing before he starts his second step sequence; this one is another set of harsh, modern dance moves that shouldn’t be in any skate routine outside of a bloody exhibition. It should make Viktor feel uncomfortable. Hell, as a coach on the circuit, he should be outraged on behalf of his own student. He should be turning ten different shades of purple like Yakov always does when he loses his temper.

And yet, rules or no rules, Sutemi’s performance is _transfixing_. He is vicious and unstoppable, a shadow with sharp edges, primed to draw blood at the first sign of weakness.

Sutemi zips around the rink like a wraith, blades singing against the ice; it’s a funeral dirge, a war cry. His dark brow furrows briefly as he comes out of his second step sequence as if dreading this next element—Viktor sees him exhale sharply as he picks up speed.

He approaches this jump from the front. A triple axel, then. Should be simple, given that it used to be Yuuri’s signature jump.

Except… there’s something indescribably _wrong_ with his preparation for the jump, Viktor notices. His knees are bent too low, his shoulders too tense. He’s going to get too much air and lose his balance. Sighing softly, Viktor braces himself for the worst.

And then Sutemi does a goddamn _quadruple axel._

Reticence abandoned, the crowd leaps to its feet and goes absolutely insane. The applause is deafening, drowning out Viktor’s pounding heartbeat for several precious moments, but Viktor doesn’t have to hear the commentators to know it’s the first quad axel that’s ever been attempted in competition. He doesn’t have to hear the resounding screams and whistles to know Sutemi just landed it cleanly. Viktor doesn’t have to hear Chris’ cursing to know that it’s bad news—no, the _worst_ —for every other team in the room. For the _world._

Four and a half rotations. Fifteen _fucking_ points—and that’s excluding the grade of execution score. It’s the jump skaters only dare to dream about when coaches aren’t around to tell them how dangerous it is to even attempt it, much less practice it.

And Sutemi Okukawa just landed it like it was nothing.

Viktor braces a hands against the bracket as his knees sag dangerously, threatening to mutiny and deposit Viktor on the floor in a heap of numb limbs. Sutemi’s wicked smile blinds everyone in the audience with its brilliance as he enters his third step sequence and drops into a flying sit spin that gradually transforms into a beautiful Biellmann, his heel lifted high with his blade caught between his fingers. Delicate and deadly. The perfect storm.

The next jump is a quadruple Lutz-triple toe loop combination, but Sutemi shocks the audience once again by raising both arms above his head with a flourish for the triple, boosting his points even more. (Jesus Christ. The boy doesn’t even look winded _._ ) Viktor wants to clap and curse and cheer all at the same time. On the other side of the rink in Russia’s box, Yuri Plisetsky is on his feet with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, fists clenched at his sides as he takes in the spectacle before him. Yakov is yelling something at a nearby Olympic official who doesn’t appear to be listening in the slightest. Viktor is shocked to see Otabek frowning, his face creased dangerously in confusion and indignation. Mila is filming the entire thing on her cell phone. She laughs with her whole body.

Sutemi plows through his final step sequence, his face twisted into a satisfied grimace as he tears across the ice; he spins, twirls, and wreaks havoc in the spotlight like no other skater before him. Sutemi is fighting an invisible foe in gladiatorial combat bare-handed, grappling for a handhold he can never hope to find. A dance of death. Of ecstasy. The fourth jump is supposed to be a triple Salchow, according to the nearby announcers, but Viktor can see that it’s going to be a combination jump before his blades leave the ice. He leaps. It’s a quad Salchow-triple Lutz with raised arms, something Viktor knows he’s seen a thousand times before, but never like _this_ ; where Yurio’s raised-arm jumps are delicate and ethereal in their beauty, Sutemi’s are raw power and sleek polish. He’s rigid all the way through the rotations, like a silver sword arcing through the air.

This is not a delicate routine. This was choreographed for a _monster_.

Sutemi slides across the ice on his knees, spinning at the last second to come to stop in the center of the ice right as the music cuts off.

Silence. Sutemi gasps for breath, shoulders heaving and sweat dripping down his brow.

Then, it all rushes in. _Noise._

The spectators leap to their feet in a tidal wave of thunderous applause and ear-splitting screams of encouragement. Flowers and stuffed animals are flung out onto the ice from all directions, regardless of citizenship. Young attendants in purple tutus and bleached skates flood the ice like insects, flitting to and fro to gather up Sutemi’s gifts. The boy himself staggers to his feet to accept the reward as it’s presented in the form of record-setting decibels and sputtered, disbelieving commentary from the news anchors nearby _._ He pumps his fists in the air and grins so widely that Viktor’s sure his cheeks will split from the strain.

Impossible. All of that should have been so utterly _impossible_ —the quad axel, the modern moves, the garish, earth-shaking music—and yet, when Sutemi’s result is eventually announced as a record-breaking score of 114.67, no one is less surprised about it than Viktor.

Yuuri’s always had a habit of doing the impossible.

“ _Team Japan is now in first place.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sutemi's short program music was a mixture of all sorts of K-pop (BTS), J-pop (Bloc B), and Rupaul's "Sissy That Walk" played on a loop for six hours straight, for those who are interested. BTS was a huge inspiration in particular; Mic Drop and Danger are probably the ones that fit the routine best. I don't want to give a single song for his routine because I don't want to lock you all in a box like that, so feel free to find your favorite song and plug it in accordingly. Whatever. It's your fic, so do what you want. 
> 
> So... thoughts? This chapter sets up the second half of the fic, even if you can't fully see all the moving pieces quite yet. I'd love to hear your predictions in the comments!
> 
> Up next: EIGHT THOUSAND WORDS OF YUURI AND VIKTOR GOODNESS. ABOUT TIME, RIGHT? LET'S BUILD THOSE BRIDGES AND HAVE SOME FEELINGS.
> 
> As always, drop me a comment if you loved or hated it. What was your favorite part? You can also find me on Tumblr as "llaquearia" for progress updates, personal questions, and chapter excerpts. (I don't do much on there. Don't judge my lack of activity.)


	18. there you feel free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW IT'S BEEN 84 YEARS PLEASE DON'T YELL AT ME. Just... bear with me for a little while longer. Busy summer. I'll explain more in the endnote.

* * *

  _July 21, 2017 — St. Petersburg, Russia_

_“You’re insane.”_

_“Maybe.”_

_“No, not maybe. Definitely.”_

_Yuuri rolls his shoulders and glares at the expanse of ice in front of him, doing his best not to look at the scuff marks on the ice where’s he fallen no less than twenty-five times today. He sees handprints in the fine dusting of ice crystals that covers the ice and a large, amorphous imprint that’s in the general shape of his ass. Viktor’s end of the rink doesn’t have any such marks—he’s done well with all of his jumps today._

_What’s the definition insanity again? Oh, yeah—doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results._

_Maybe Yuuri is insane after all._

_He glances up at Viktor through the sweaty fringe of hair that hangs in front of his eyes and holds up one index finger in placation. “One more try. Please?”_

_“You said that thirty minutes ago.”_

_“I really mean it this time.”_

_“Well, I really don’t_ believe _you this time.” Viktor crosses his arms and gives Yuuri a disapproving look. He jerks his head in the general direction of the rink exit. “As your coach, I say you’re done for the night. Come on, let’s go h— god dammit, Yuuri!”_

_The wind is singing past his ears as he builds up speed, ignoring Viktor’s shouts of protest as they bleed into the dull roar of blood pumping in Yuuri’s ears. The jump comes up faster than anticipated, but then again, all jumps seem to sneak up on him in some fashion; it’s why he hates them so much. The triple axel has always been his strong suit, however. Maybe it’s because he can see it coming better than the others. Maybe it’s because he enjoys doing impossible things just to see if he can._

_Yuuri holds his breath and bends his knees, swinging his free leg around and tucking up into the axel for all he’s worth. One_ two _three—_

_Four._

_He doesn’t land it—not even close—but he’s lucid enough to know he met the rotation requirement by the skin of his teeth, even if it wasn’t executed perfectly. Gravity sinks its claws into him and drags him downward before he can revel in his accomplishment for too long. He hits the ice hard and his skates shoot out from under him, sending him crashing down like a flailing ragdoll._

_The quad axel is dangerous and difficult._

_It’s also_ possible.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri knew the quadruple axel would change things.

Just like the invention of the wheel or Einstein’s theory of relativity, the axel would add another invisible layer to the world of figure skating; one more milestone, one more achievement, one more way to win. A new miracle jump for all skaters to hope and pray for, like children wishing upon a faraway star at their bedroom windows.

The second Sutemi escapes the Kiss and Cry with a world record under one arm and a brand new chapter in a history book tucked in his back pocket like a folded-up love letter, he is assaulted by the press en masse. Cameras flash and burn, reporters thrust their microphones and recorders in his direction, beseeching him with their half-screeched, _“Please, Okukawa-san, will you comment?”_ Fangirls up in the stands hurl bouquets of flowers and rain stuffed animals on his head as he makes his way around the edge of the rink toward the tunnel that leads to the off-ice practice room and lockers; they scream his name and hold up posters with his face on them that are decorated with unhealthy amounts of glitter and holographic stickers. Commentators cry out from their boxes, the judges look baffled in their seats, and the other skaters look downright _nervous_ as Sutemi struts past them with fully-bloomed roses in his cheeks and the world under his thumb.

And then there’s Viktor. Viktor, who stands in the exact spot where Yuuri left him fifteen minutes ago, looking at Yuuri like he’s something no one’s ever seen before. Like he’s something brand new. A limited edition, mint in the box. _Special_.

That look on his face stirs something in Yuuri’s chest—something warm and smoldering and forgotten.

Yuuri averts his eyes before he can think too much about it. He can deal with Viktor later tonight. (And that thought by itself is enough to make his heart do somersaults.) Right now, Sutemi is the one everyone wants a piece of in some form or another. It’s Yuuri’s job to keep him from getting torn apart.

Yuuri holds up his hand and puts on the ‘ _don’t-fuck-with-me’_ face he used to practice in the mirror before he got used to coaching on the circuit. He waves reporters off and mutters, “No comment, please, my skater needs to stretch, excuse us,” as they slip through the jostling crowd around them. Sutemi doesn’t say a word, but Yuuri can feel how tense he is beneath the guiding grip he has on his elbow.

As soon as they slip past the security checkpoint and out of sight, they make a hard left and head into the off-ice practice room where several pairs of ice dancers are practicing lifts for their short dances. They look up as Sutemi walks in the room. Some of them smile. Others simply look scared, like Sutemi’s some kind of monster they always heard stories about but never truly believed in until now.

Yuuri lets go of Sutemi’s elbow. The boy lets out a slow breath, cheeks still flushed, and he runs his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. His makeup is smudged and sweating off in rivulets, revealing more and more of his freckles with each passing second.

“Well,” Sutemi starts. “That went—“

“Oh my _god!_ ” Harper cries out, zipping past Yuuri in a blur of golden hair. Sutemi barely has time to yelp in surprise before she’s on him like an octopus, wrapping his arms around him and cinching tightly like she never, ever plans on letting go. Her eyes are squeezed shut and her grin is blinding and beautiful, and Yuuri allows himself a faint smile at the display.

“I am so proud of you, kiddo,” she’s saying into Sutemi’s shoulder. “So _goddamn_ proud. I knew you could land that axel, knew it before you even warmed up. God, I can’t… I don’t even _know_ —“

Sutemi’s smile turns faintly watery and he hugs her back fiercely, lifting her feet up off the ground a few centimeters. “Thanks, Doc.”

“You were incredible out there,” Yuuri agrees, stepping closer. He blinks and his vision blurs somewhat, but it looks like Sutemi’s having the same trouble with his tear ducts, so Yuuri doesn’t bother to hide it. Pride swells in his chest until he feels like he’ll burst from the pressure. “What you just did—there are no words for it. And I know we won’t know for sure until tomorrow, but I think…” He claps Sutemi on the shoulder. “I think you may have just earned your first Olympic gold medal.”

A silvery tear slips down Sutemi’s face and he chokes out a sob that almost sounds like a laugh. His nose is turning red and the smile on his face is so joyful that Yuuri feels his own smile brighten in response.

“Fuck, Sensei.” He’s laughing and crying and rocking Harper back and forth as she clings to him. Sutemi swipes at the tears on his flushed face. “Sorry for swearing, but… oh my god, I just broke a record out there. Holy _shit._ ”

“I think you’ve earned a couple swear words,” Yuuri says, sniffling and laughing. “I won’t tell your aunt if you don’t.”

Sutemi holds out an arm to draw Yuuri into a group hug with Harper, gripping him with shaky hands. He huffs softly with laughter and squeezes both of his mentors as tight as he possibly can.

“Fuckin’ _deal,_ Sensei.”

 

* * *

 

The interviews after that are—predictably—long and horrible, and Yuuri hates every single one of them. As soon as Harper releases Sutemi to speak with the press, citing potential muscle strains and listing stretching exercises for him to do later tonight, they’re both tossed to the wolves with a chirped, “Good luck, losers!” and left in the cold. They stare at the closed door to the warm-up room with equal amounts of longing etched into their features.

“Can’t we just—“ Sutemi tries, but Yuuri shakes his head.

“No,” he sighs, glancing down the long hallway that lies before them. At the end, he can hear the echoes of the clamoring reporters who are just _dying_ to get a photo with the new world-record holder from Japan. He rubs a hand over his face and braces himself. _Be responsible, Yuuri. Be fucking responsible._ “No, we have to face them.”

“But—“

“If we don’t do this now, we’ll be late for dinner.”

That shuts him up. Sutemi sucks his displeasure through his nostrils and squares his shoulders, clenching his jaw. He nods stiffly. “Well, in that case—for dinner,” he announces, sounding like a medieval knight on his way to do battle. (Which isn’t far off the mark, knowing what awaits them at the end of the tunnel.)

Yuuri squares up behind his student’s left shoulder and lays an encouraging hand in the center of his back, pressing just hard enough to let him know he’s there. “For dinner,” he repeats quietly.

They walk.

They stand close to each other as they wade through the flashing cameras and spongy microphones, making their way toward the BBC reporters before NBC can sink their claws into Team Japan first. Sutemi turns on his trademark crooked smile and winks at the cameras as he passes by, wearing his public persona like a second skin. Right now, he’s untouchable, unknowable. He’s the boy with the tragic backstory and a quad axel. He’s America’s Sweetheart. He’s Japan’s Ace. He breaks hearts by the dozens every time he flashes that smile and doesn’t think twice about it.

If only the public knew that he takes no less than twenty minutes every morning to tame his curls in front of the mirror. Or that he slept on Stéphane Lambiel sheets until he was eighteen years old. Yuuri’s still not entirely convinced he doesn’t have them stashed in a drawer somewhere back home. (“They’re _limited edition_ , Sensei,” he’s said when Yuuri found them under his comforter a few years back. “They’re fucking collector’s items. You— you wouldn’t understand, okay? _Stop laughing!_ ”)

They see Morooka waving frantically, ushering them over with wide eyes and rambling something they can’t understand over the general uproar surrounding them on all sides. But before long, they’re trapped in the middle of the mob, blinding lights trained on them and drones buzzing closely overhead in hope of capturing a brief statement from the Olympics’ dark horse and his infamous coach. The questions come from every feasible direction.

“Sutemi, how long have you had the quadruple axel in your repertoire?”

“Okukawa-san, is this the reason you took the competitive season off?”

“What kind of statement were you trying to make with your short program today?”

“Mr. Okukawa, is this your way of announcing your return to Team USA?”

Sutemi blinks and takes a hesitant step away from the clamoring reporters with their brandished microphones and flashing cameras, but he doesn’t get far before Yuuri stops him. Placing a firm hand in the center of his student’s back once again, Yuuri presses him forward into the edge of the spotlight the news anchors and reporters have cast in his direction.

“Answer one at a time,” he murmurs in Sutemi’s ear. “And remember, you don’t have to answer all of them. Or any of them, really. No pressure.”

“Yeah, right,” he mutters flatly. He’s always hated talking to the press. Given a choice, Sutemi’d rather pull weeds from Minako’s garden or shove needles underneath his fingernails than field questions in front of cameras.

The cost of being a world champion, Yuuri supposes.

At Yuuri’s side, Sutemi takes a deep breath and turns back to the reporters, plastering on a brilliant smile that could hardly be called a smile at all; it’s more of a grimace with bared teeth. But he’s sure no one will notice—not unless they know Sutemi personally, that is. “Can— uh, sorry. Can you repeat your questions again? One at a time, please.”

A young blonde reporter from NBC steps forward. She has the longest fake eyelashes Yuuri’s ever seen, the fibers fanned out wide enough against her face to pick up a stiff wind. Holding out her microphone, she demands, “Sutemi, no one was aware you were working on perfecting the quadruple axel for the Olympics. Is there a reason you didn’t make an announcement when you acquired it?”

He gives her a confused look, laughing nervously. “Uh, competitive spirit, I guess? I didn’t want anyone knowing I had it and one-upping me before I could do anything about it. Figured that was pretty obvious.”

“So you took off the season to learn the jump?”

“What?” He shakes his head. “No. I mean, _yes,_ but it wasn’t just that. I had other things I wanted to work on, too. My coach thought the break from competing would give me more time for injury rehabilitation if the jump went wrong or something. Kinda took the pressure off. It also gave me time to learn other things and perfect them, like my quad Sal.”

Another reporter surges forward. “Does your quadruple axel have any relation to the ankle injury you sustained in January? Reports said you lost your footing on an axel jump.”

Sutemi shakes his head. “Nope. That was just me being stupid and skating when I was tired. Next question, please.”

A small, petite reporter from Japan comes up with a miniature recorder clutched in her fists—Yuuri can’t remember her name for the life of him, but she’s always been very nice to Sutemi in interviews. She bows respectfully before asking, “Okukawa-san, what message were you trying to convey with your routine today?”

At this, Sutemi’s grimace softens into something almost reminiscent of an actual smile. He rubs the back of his neck, chuckling. “Aw, come on, Sayori-chan. You know I’m not a complicated guy. There’s no hidden message in my routine. No moral, no emotion. It was just… fun.”

“Fun,” she repeats, cocking her head to the side. Her eyes sparkle with genuine curiosity.

Sutemi nods. “Yes, fun _._ I’ve spent a long time on the circuit, but in the process I guess I just sort of… I dunno, _forgot_ to have fun while I was fighting for the top spot on that podium. The routines I brought to Beijing this year are all about getting back to my roots, if you really want a label for them. Figure skating is _supposed_ to be a fun sport of dance and expressionism—not the pretentious, uptight thing everyone’s turned it into over the last decade.”

Sayori frowns concernedly. “So you don’t care about winning anymore?”

He laughs loudly, shaking his head. “Oh, no. I want to win just as much as the next skater, I bet. Maybe even more.” Sutemi rakes a hand through his sweat-drenched hair and grins cheekily at the cameras that are trained on him. “I just want to have fun doing it, you know? ‘Cause if I’m not enjoying myself, winning won’t be worth the effort of climbing that podium.”

A surge in the crowd of reporters, and a young man with a thick German accent thrusts his microphone in Sutemi’s face. “Are you saying you think less of the other skaters because they take the sport too seriously?” he shrieks, eyes wild and accusatory.

Sutemi gives him a funny look. “Uh. Dude. No. We’ve got some good competition at these games and they’ve all got their own ways of doing things. I respect the other guys here just as much as I did before I changed tactics.”

Sayori elbows in front of the German reporter none-too-nicely, a sweet smile still fixed on her face. “If I may ask, Sutemi-san—what brought on this change of heart? You seemed comfortable skating more traditional programs last season. Was it your coach’s idea or yours?”

_Oh, no. Please no._

Yuuri’s blood runs cold. Sutemi stiffens, his shoulders going rigid beneath his Team Japan jacket like he’s been electrified from head to toe. His eyes are wide and blank and so, so infinite that Yuuri wonders if he’s seeing anything at all; maybe he’s lost to the world, trapped in his own head as thoughts of his mother suffocate him, pressing in on all sides.

Yuuri hears his calling like a bell tower in the distance. He needs to intervene.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Yuuri cuts in, smooth as silk despite the way his fingers shake at his sides, “I believe that’s enough questions for now. You’ve all been very patient with us, but my skater needs—“

A hand on his arm stops him cold. Sutemi’s gaze is flinty and his jaw is clenched. “No, Sensei. It’s… it’s cool. I can tell them.”

Yuuri blinks, stunned. He leans in close, his words barely more than an exhale. “You don’t have to. No one is going to make you—”

“I want to.” His smile is slightly more confident now, and his cheeks have regained some of their color. He looks nervous and he’s biting his lower lip, but his shoulders are squared, held solid against the surging storm.

Cameras flash brighter and reporters start to mumble anxiously into their microphones. The drones buzz a little louder in Yuuri’s ears. Gently, Sutemi removes Yuuri’s hand from his arm, smiling softly up at his coach with eyes that look far too old for his face before he turns to look at Sayori once again. She’s watching him with unbridled curiosity, microphone held front and center against the onslaught of other reporters; she alone stands sentinel against the hoard.

Sutemi steps closer to the microphone, ducking his head close enough to be heard over all the chatter. His eyes are lined with strain, but his shoulders are straight and his fists clenched.

“It was my idea to change my program style,” Sutemi says carefully, each word articulate and formal. He takes a breath. “But I ultimately made the decision… because of my mom.”

The noise swells and _bursts_ spectacularly, resulting in an outpouring of camera flashes and shrieking reporters. Yuuri flinches, taking a half-step away from the mob.

“Sutemi, is this your way of coping with your mother’s death?”

“What do you _mean_ by that, Mr. Okukawa?”

“—renouncing your allegiance to the JSF?”

 “Are you rebelling against the predetermined—?”

“Guys, guys,” Sutemi shouts, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. His eyes are wide and his gaze flickers between reporters nervously, but he’s smiling and his stance is relaxed despite the way his breath stutters ever so slightly. “ _Jeez_ , just… just wait a hot second, all of you. I wasn’t finished. I’m not rebelling or giving the middle finger to anyone with my routines, all right? There’s, like, no double meaning here. I just changed my routines because—“ and here he falters, a pained expression passing over his face like a shadow for a brief flickering moment before his expression hardens once again.

Yuuri holds his breath.

“Because it’s what my mom would’ve wanted,” Sutemi finishes softly. “She, uh, was the one who got me into figure skating in the first place, you know. But she never really wanted me to compete because that wasn’t really her style. She just… I don’t know. She wanted me to do it for fun because skating _is_ fun. It’s the best thing there is, and I’m sure every athlete here would agree with me on that.”

A hand shoots skyward in the crowd—a wiry, young British reporter with red hair and freckles covering every inch of visible skin. “So this is your way of criticizing the ISU’s 2021 regulations and stylistic preferences?”

Sutemi winces. “Not… really? I mean, I don’t know. I’m a simple guy. My coach and I made my routines because I wanted to have some fun out on the ice instead of freaking myself out over jumps and GOE scores. I don’t care either way about the regulations ‘cause that’s not my thing.”

“And the quad axel?” someone shouts from the back.

At this, Sutemi’s smile turns faintly cocky. He shrugs, saying simply, “Hey, I said I wanted to enjoy myself. That doesn’t mean I ever intended on _losing_.”

Once again, the cameras flash and the reporters surge like a tidal wave, each one talking loudly over another in an attempt to get the inside scoop about who-knows and who-the-hell-cares. Yuuri trades a sidelong glance with Sutemi, who raises his eyebrows incredulously. _Please get me out of here,_ he seems to say, and Yuuri nods tightly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” Yuuri announces, waving a hand to get the press’ attention. With his free hand, he grips Sutemi’s elbow and pulls him along toward the exit of the rink, being careful not to bump any low-flying drones or microphones as they inch their way along the concrete wall behind them. “Thank you so much for your time and patience with us. I hope you’ll continue to root for Team Japan tomorrow morning when the team skating event concludes.”

It’s easy to slip into this side of his professional persona, Yuuri thinks contentedly as his mouth runs and runs. This is the side of him he rarely gets to show the rest of the world—the one with hard stares and brutal workout regimes, tough-as-nails diet plans and an irrefutable _no comment_ face. When Yuuri is Coach Katsuki, everything is just… easier.

He shuts the world out and turns the dial up to eleven as long as he can stand it. It’s enough to get them out of the media’s clutches and back into Team Japan’s box, where Sutemi is greeted with fist bumps and hugs and selfies like nothing Yuuri has ever seen before. Minami practically tackles him, almost in tears and babbling senselessly about fallen angels and how his horoscope _obviously_ had something to do with this because there’s no way things could have worked out this perfectly without some kind of cosmic intervention.

But as the evening wears on, Yuuri feels Viktor weighted gaze on his back more and more until it feels like he’ll collapse beneath the pressure. Even when they exit the stadium, bouquets in hand and stuffed animals packed into trash bags for easy transport, Yuuri senses him watching.

He tries not to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. I know that was 99% filler and Sutemi bragging on his broken record, but it had to be done. What a good boi. The best boi. 
> 
> Anyway, I know I've slowed down on updates lately, but that's because I've been working on another ongoing multichap fic for My Hero Academia that's... shockingly successful all of a sudden? Weird. I suppose that fandom is a little more topical than this one since the third season is currently airing, but whatever. Either way, that's where I've been for the last month and a half, and it's probably where I'll be through the end of July and early August. I always feel more inspired for this fic during the figure skating season anyway. 
> 
> Just give me a little time and I'll get back on track with this fic soon! I also plan on going back through my chapters to analyze Viktor's character development--it has been brought to my attention that he's perhaps not the most three-dimensional person in this story and that he needs some work. I'll be attending to that as soon as possible. Thank you all for being so patient with me!
> 
> If you want updates on my life and chapter excerpts, follow me on [Tumblr.](https://llaquearia.tumblr.com/) And if you want to, go to my ao3 profile and read "The Roots That Clutch." I'm told it's quite something. 
> 
> Up next: Yakov makes an announcement. Dinner is had. Yuuri and Viktor finally have a human conversation where nobody interrupts them. WAOW, AMAZING.


End file.
